Tears in the Rain
by Telemachus Prime
Summary: With Shaun Mars dead & the Origami Killer uncaptured, Norman Jayden & Carter Blake must deal with the consequences of their actions. Meanwhile, a new, ferocious killer arises...
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Story will contain graphic, heavily violent scenes (in later chapters), strong language, and adult themes so reader discretion is advised. All characters are property of Quantic Dream and in no way does the author claim any rights to their entities forthwith. Blah blah blah please don't sue.

Chapter I

Norman Jayden failed to save Shaun Mars, that was all there was to it. How could it have happened? Norman was the best at what he did - a psychological profiler, with a keen and astute nature to find the details and nuisances in a psychopathic killer's mind. In fact, he was the best amongst his colleagues at the bureau, excelled to the level of bordering superhumanly brilliant, he could have had a promising career full of advancements and promotions. And with ARI at hand, the device which helped him to disseminate huge amounts of impregnable information in virtual space, he became somewhat Godly: invincible, flawless and unstoppable.

Yet despite all his fine honed mental attributes, and the advanced technology to enhance his capacities as a profiler, he failed. Shaun Mars was dead, the Origami Killer escaped, and life was inexorably cruel and unfair. If only it could be as beautiful and serene as the virtual world of ARI, where Norman Jayden was now sitting cross-legged, hugging his knees close to his body. He was at the top of the world, at the peak of a canyon plateau, overlooking a basin lined thick with tropical vegetation, and a cascading waterfall to the side that descended onto a river which snaked through the forest. Here, the virtual landscape felt limitless, above the clouds, and just beyond reach of the endless, cerulean skies. However, Jayden's true world, his inner being, felt anything but; it was finite, flawed, imperfect and fragile in all its humanity.

What could he do now? His perfect record of solved cases was blemished, his character as the star FBI profiler now suspect, and most of all, a child died because of him, and countless more would soon follow. Jayden never realized how hard it was to actualize and face the burden that plagued him, devouring and eviscerating him from within until all that remained was the guilt at the brutal guts of his being.

_Just what are you going to do now?_

"I don't know. Resign? Try to forget…" he croaked in a dead-pan voice. "I don't know…"

Maybe he could take some Triptocane, sweet and blissful Triptocane, his ideal & sinful wonder, his personal narcotic maiden. How could he not take Triptocane, especially now when things were so difficult for him? How unbiased and welcoming she was; she would not judge, she would never reject, unboastful and unabashed, and most of all, she gave him the transient and regrettable pleasure that could ease the pain of his predicament, make him forget and never record any of his wrong doings. How merciful, how kind, how forgiving she was! To Norman, Triptocane was like the loving mother, the teacher, the secret goddess that held him close to her bosom in a caress while the edge of a blade pressed dangerously to his throat.

_Is Tripto part of your plan to forget?_

Norman knew this answer: Triptocane was the most effective way he found. But it was not the solution, and deep down he knew this. However, for that moment, the solution was the last thing to dominate his mind, which once was brilliant and beautiful now reduced to a murky miasma of personal hellish demons, of deep Triptocane nightmares, of the desire to forget.

_Things may have affected you more than you think, Norman._

Why would that be? Surely he was okay, surely Tripto would never betray him, his mind and body would never betray him, he would get through this, together with his lady of the drug, together with his ignominy and failure.

"I'm getting through this. Let's just take it easy," said Norman solemnly as he rose wearily to his feet, and added, "See what happens when this is all over."

And then he turned slowly, to the figure standing behind him, and was chilled to find himself standing before him. But it was not just another Norman, but the mirror to himself, the ultimate truth that reflected the immutable and unchangeable: that the weight of his failure had consumed him, that the narcotic maiden he called Triptocane had reaped him, that he was not a God, but a mortal, dying human being.

'_It may never be over, Norman,' _said his mirror ominously.

That was the moment the walls of reality began crashing down on him, ARI phasing out completely for Norman's final digital session. He was no longer at the beautiful, virtual canyon, but in a grungy motel room, splayed on a grimy stained carpet as dozens of Triptocane vials were scattered around him carelessly. Norman was breathing hard, his heart punching rapidly against his chest, as he was curled on his side in a fetal position. Then he rolled to his back, in a haphazard and useless heap, staring up in the dilapidated ceiling as he could feel the last few breaths leave him. Faintly, he could hear a distant rapping, growing into a thudded knock, was this the reaper coming to claim him at last? Was this the Triptocane finally showing him how decadently savage she was? It was far too late for Norman to consider that now…

First breath. His lungs stung hard, as if brambles had jutted through his airways, forcing blood to stream out of his nose. Second breath. His heart felt like he was being lanced, crucified for the world to see his shame. Final breath – and he realized the horrible truth of it all: he was alone, as he always was, and will be now, forever and ever. And then, the final visage of his humanity bubbled forth from his eye, just a single tear, as it cascaded over his lid, and rolled down the side of his face.

What would Norman think if he was still alive for those next few seconds? Perhaps he would have stewed further in his failure, be his own worst critic, consider another round of Triptocane? Or he might have dwelled into shameful, self deprecating, masochistic thoughts that would punish himself into oblivion? How could Norman have known through his narcotic haze before his last breath, that the knocking he heard earlier had not been the reaper at all, but the Anti-Christ himself.

Carter Blake crashed open the door to Norman's motel room, muscling his way through the room as a furious tempest. Norman's greatest foil and rival had unexpectedly arrived due to a phone call made to the lieutenant before his overdose. Earlier in the motel room, Norman's night first started with self-loathing, then some bottles of alcohol until his watch read "Beer-o-Clock" in his buzzed mind. When he was sure his inhibitions were squared away, he called Carter on his cell phone to spew out a litany of foul phrases full of diction and syntax only a crass collegiate could formulate (something along the lines of circus midgets fisting Carter, whilst he copulated a dog in full decomposing necrosis, and coprophagia with Tapatio hot sauce on top, just to name a few) followed by a grim epitaph about this being the last time he'd hear from him before hanging up, and then snorted up about a dozen or so phials of Triptocane. Nothing like giving the big, proverbial finger to the man you loath so much by making a call you know that could never be returned, because you would be dead, just like Norman was as he laid sprawled so pathetically on the carpet, overdosed on his delightfully vicious Triptocane.

And so when Carter stopped at the end of the hallway and saw Norman sprawled on the ground, with some half-empty & some filled teal vials littering the dirty floor like some kind of gross abstract art with the FBI agent as the centerpiece, the lieutenant knew what this was, all too well – drug overdose by Triptocane. True, his job in the police force had made this scene so commonplace that an overdose by any drug bordered on the mundane and could identify such situations immediately, but in actuality he had a much personal experience in the younger part of his life, a similar situation that made this moment all too familiar and painfully intimate: the shady motel room, the expired body, and the copious amounts of Triptocane all over the ground.

"Fuck!" he cried out, partly irritated, throwing his hands up in frustration. "Shit!"

As if he were being controlled by a puppeteer, Carter's limbs moved on their own, being willed by a deeper presence inside of him. He swooped down beside Norman, put his hands above his chest, one over the other, and started pumping downwards. Yes, he was definitely a brutish and belligerent police officer, doing illicitus and violent things on the job, and yes, he could very well be a psychopath according to Norman (though this might be debatable), and _yes_, he was a major douche bag, so much so that if you looked up that very word in the dictionary, the words "Carter Blake" would be the principal definition.

But he wasn't without his fractured past, he wasn't one without remorse from a moment gone awry, with another person, somebody like Norman, intelligent and highly motivated, but with the only remarked difference was this person had bypassed all of Carter's barriers and walls, and gained access to his most fragile self. It was a moment gone so horribly wrong, ending with a regrettable death, that it became the cornerstone to the man he was today, not as rookie cop Carter, but as Lieutenant _fucking_ Blake.

And just like that moment in Carter's past so long ago, the reaper had come to make his claim again at this moment in the motel room. And Carter was not the most humble of losers, very far from it, leagues even. In fact, he was such a sore loser that he could not bear to let death claim Norman, even if the very presence of the FBI agent had continually spiked his blood pressure to ridiculous levels.

One, two, three pumps later, and Carter took a deep breath. He screwed his eyes shut, partly out of vehemence, and partly out of disgust, that not only had he to breath into Norman's mouth, but that he'd have to make some sort of residual, human, and grotesquely personal contact with the man he so desperately loathed – mouth to mouth, breath of life into a body without, a part of _him_ entering into Norman, God forbidding…

One, two, three pumps again, then another exhaled breath with lip contact again, and again and again. Motion after motion, automatic and, to the lieutenant, hideous but necessary. He wasn't going to let him get away with it once more, he wasn't going to let Death win. Not when this was Carter's time to right his past at this moment of personal redemption.

"C'mon," he hissed between gritted teeth. "C'mon you _fuck_, breathe!"

Frustrated, after making his final mouth to mouth contact, Carter balled his hand into a clenched fist and slammed Norman in the chest. He roared the loudest _fuck_ that made the whole world know and tremble - that Lieutenant Carter Blake was raging, very, very hard.

Then came the quick intake of air, a deep gasp as Norman's body lurched at the sudden influx of life returning to his body, heart beating once again. The acute surge of suddenly living distilling into his being was so sharp that he let out several raspy coughs afterwards, then settled. His vision which started off blurred was slowly starting to come to focus. He saw a dark cloud above him, morphing slowly into a shadow, then a solid silhouette, until he recognized Carter leaning over him with a tight fist pushing against his heart.

He heard the lieutenant let out one laugh of relief, followed by another louder one, until the laughs strung together to be maniacal to the point of insanity. Oh God, this was it, Norman had died and this was his new circle of hell as punishment, something beyond the nine he'd known from the Divine Comedy, maybe some unknown tenth layer or much deeper, where the true Anti-Christ that was Carter Blake would mock and laugh at Norman with such indignation into infinity and beyond. But no, this was it; this was reality all over again, only he had a second chance at life.

But what Norman hadn't known was that Carter wasn't just relieved that he was alive, but somehow overwhelmed, with the joy that he had beaten Death at his own game, the one opponent the lieutenant thought he could never win, and some semblance of redemption from a personal past had been resolved.

And it pleased Carter even more to see such confusion across Norman's slowly-regaining conscious face.

They both didn't know it yet, not at this time, but someday Carter would tell the man of that fractured past gone awry, and Norman would open up just the same with his own. It would be several moments that both didn't know would ever happen, the moments that through their shared experiences, their barriers would be stripped away, and their fragile selves would be exposed to one another. Not that of FBI Agent Norman Jayden or as Lieutenant Carter Blake, but as two human beings, brothers in arms, eking to find their place in this twisted world that was called life.

But right now, at this moment, Carter only had one thing in mind as he stopped laughing abruptly, and loomed over Norman, eclipsing him in his indomitable, mountainous presence and stature.

"You okay?" Carter asked in an admonished, but careful tone, highly uncharacteristic.

There was a moment shared by the two, awkward but also something unusually intimate, with a strong fist against his chest, and their eyes locking. Norman had just been resuscitated back from the edge of death's hands, and none other by his antithesis Carter, realizing that his essence was swirling inside his bronchioles and circulating through his very blood stream. Good Lord, the situation was almost comically ironic, like some form of crude, fucked up slapstick.

Norman had to wheeze in a couple of breaths before he could answer, "Yeah…I think so…"

Then Carter lifted Norman by the collar of his shirt and delivered a mind-crunching head butt, knocking the FBI agent completely unconscious.

"Fuckin' asshole!" yelled the lieutenant at Norman's passed out face, raw from his solicitous phone call earlier that night.

Then Carter immediately regretted his decision, after dropping the agent to the floor. He now just realized that hauling Norman's unconscious body would be more troublesome now than if he were actually awake to help walk himself to the car, and get him to nearest hospital to flush out the near lethal dosage of Triptocane from his system intermingled with however much alcohol he drunk. Though partly, and with a shit-eating grin on his face, Carter was rather glad to have struck Norman anyway.

* * *

_It had taken the Thin Man awhile to find him, but after much sleuthing, Scott Shelby was found. It hadn't been by any purposeful meaning, strolling through the streets, hunting and prowling, finding leads after leads of loose trails and dead ends, only to spy one rainy night completely by accident, through the window of a café, Scott Shelby sitting idly in a booth. Scott Shelby, the great Origami Killer, had been found, only to discover that he was reduced to sighs and lonely coffee in a 1950's style café just staring into his cup after midnight._

_This was the great white whale he was hunting? This was the famous serial killer who evaded the likes of investigative reporter Madison Paige, elite FBI Agent Norman Jayden, and even Lieutenant __Carter __Blake and his posse of police thugs? Now reduced to solitude and java?_

_Christ, Scott Shelby wouldn't even be worth it with the lack of vigorous, zealous countenance he had seen through his works, of all those children he drowned, the message of pain he addressed to the world. There needed to be something tangible, something gripping, there needed to be a villain, there had to be a monster, the darkness of the soul! Otherwise this wouldn't make any sense; it would be like killing a quadruple paraplegic – helpless and pathetic._

_What the Thin Man saw from Scott Shelby and his slouching form and frowning face, was a once bestial lion now turned into a retreating wounded cub, nurtured and comforted by some form of regret and guilt, my God! Scott Shelby was turning human! This won't do, this won't do at all, and the Thin Man had seen this before, if Scott finds redemption the great white whale would be impossible to kill, worthless. This world needed justice, and having a redeemed monster was the sickest form of cruelty bestowed upon him in a failed, lawless world._

_No, the Thin Man decided that instead of killing the gimped humanized Shelby now, he would slowly cultivate his darkness, nurture it, regrow and reshape it once more. The beast known as the Origami Killer will be resurrected from beyond the shadows, grasping it by the throat and birthed into the light to be admired, in that brightest and most feral moment. And then, when the monster rears its head, its power reaching its apex, the Thin Man will kill it. The thought of it all simply excited him, almost obscenely orgasmic, his sick thrill, and of something much, much darker. _

_Things were going to start getting…ferocious…  
_

* * *

**Author's**** Note: Thank you for reading! All comments and constructive criticisms are always welcome. :)**_  
_

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	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Story will contain graphic, heavily violent scenes (in later chapters), strong language, and adult themes so reader discretion is advised. All characters are property of Quantic Dream and in no way does the author claim any rights to their entities forthwith. Blah blah blah please don't sue.

Chapter II

For as long as he could remember, Norman Jayden had always been alone. His childhood wasn't exactly what one would consider permanent, not like other children and their families who stay situated in one place, planting roots into the community, encapsulating personal bonds that would grow into relationships – like a best friend, a close set of buddies, a crush, maybe even a love interest of some kind. None of those prevailed in his younger years; they were the equivalent to the concept of electricity or even the molecules in air: sure they existed, he understood their concepts, but he couldn't necessarily see them, let alone grasp them tangibly in his hand.

No, to Norman, growing up meant living a life of transience: different house, different city, different faces, all across the United States. This was primarily due in part of his father's career oriented lifestyle, which was to be the future path that Norman would follow: an FBI profiler, the very best in his league. His dad was intelligent, head strong, incredibly ambitious and superhumanly motivated to solve whatever seemingly impossible case was given to him. And because of his cases, and his renowned successes, moving to said designated city after city to solve each case was always mandatory by the bureau, and to an extension, a personal request by his dad.

His dad's other primary attribute, however, the one he excelled at above all else, was his ability to be absent throughout most of Norman's younger years. He was no more real to Norman than the Flying Spaghetti Monster, so he might as well not have been his dad at all. Still, out of principle, and to make things less confusing on him, Norman simply called him by "dad" anyway, more so like an ineffectual moniker such as "grocery clerk" or "barista" than a designation to a personal bond, if there was even such a connection to begin with.

There were certainly times when his dad would make his grand appearance, Norman considered these more like satellite moments than anything really: a predictable, orbiting, linear event in his younger years when his part fictional, part non-fictional dad-figure would somehow make his rounds to the solar system of his life and simply be present in manifest for an iota. So what was Norman's earliest memory of his birthday and his dad? It was at age five, somewhere in a pre-furnished rental condo at the eastern coast of the United States. His dad arrived at 12:30 PM, and due to his overtly punctual nature, right down to the precise second.

Norman's mom loved these moments; she was looking more forward to them than Norman was - so much so in fact that she always looked pristinely manicured on those particular days, with her gaudy pink polyester dress, her over use of facial powder and blush, and a brunette up-do shaped like some bizarre outer space helmet. She looked more like a quixotic, ornamental mannequin than something resembling a mother, let alone a human being.

And when 12:30 PM hit right on the dot, the conveyor belt of events would begin for those next few precious minutes in celebration of Norman's day of birth.

It began with the door opening wide, almost violently so out of frustration, banging against the wall perpendicular to it, as if to herald his dad's majestic arrival. Then his mom, who had been standing at the entry way for about five minutes prior, gave his dad a wide, plastic smile. She approached him, and shared a brief kiss that had as much gesticulation as gelatin slapping against a piece of cellophane. And as instructed, Norman had been sitting at the dining table, in front of his vanilla birthday cake mottled with rainbow sprinkles, candle already lit, also about five minutes prior, stewing in his own anticipation and sweat to see the ephemeral figure that was his dad. He dangled his legs nervously, not even long enough to touch the ground.

And when his parents broke away from their sloppy lip suction, they were already singing happy birthday in midstride, chorused in a way that sounded more animatronic and hurried than affectionate. By the time they reached him, they were already at the final stanza of the song.

"Happy birthday dear Norman, happy birthday-"

And as rehearsed ten minutes prior, coached by his dolled up mother, he timed an intake of breath, then expelled it to extinguish the candle.

"-to you!" his parents sang out, finally.

Then Norman looked up to his parents. First, to his mom, only because she made him less anxious, still smiling as hard as she was when his dad arrived, staring back at young Norman expectantly with her viridian eyes, the attractive physical trait that he and her shared. And then with a dry gulp, he looked up to his father, seeing perhaps more like a time vortex into the future, the man he will one day become in physical manifestation: the edged face, heavy eyes and the etched look of fatigue and sleepless nights. But despite that, his dad could pull off a subtle but telling smirk, a signature style that served as the _other_ identifier to complete the equation: "dad" plus "smirk" equals Norman Jayden's father.

He figured that the smirk was the only symbol of affection he would ever receive from his dad, so he cherished it. And Norman would stare secretly into mirrors on lonely childhood nights, the ones where he needed the presence of a father the most, and try to duplicate his smirk; and maybe, just maybe, the semblance of his father would reveal himself on that smooth, reflected surface, if only for a brief and ghostly moment. He would later carry this feature to his adult years, especially whenever Norman would say something ironic (like that time when he _ironically_ told Carter how he thought he was a tough street cop who'd been through the mill).

Beyond that smirk that etched itself deeply into young Norman Jayden's mind, there was finally the birthday present to complete the series of sequential events. The same gift was always given to him year after year - predictable in all its triteness, like the monotony of marching drills, wherein one foot goes down, the obvious and logical conclusion is that the other must follow. It first starts with his dad lifting a large, rectangular gift wrapped present, too professional to be done by his own hand, and gives it to Norman by sliding it across the table. Then young Norman picked it up, studied the cartoon bears with colored cone hats over the wrapper, and tore across the surface in one swift motion, then another, until the gift was laid naked and bare for his curious eyes to witness.

"Oh it's a book Norman, how lovely!" chirped his mother as she read the cover. "It's called…an Introduction to Behavioral Evidence Analysis?"

His mother gave his dad a wry stare as if to say, _'A psychology book? Really?_ _Really now?'_

His dad just nods in reply, and then delivered his signature smirk.

"He's going to be like his dad one day," he would say. "The boy's a genius, I tell you."

Since Norman hadn't been to any other child's birthday party before his own, he wasn't sure if a present like this was the norm, or even necessarily kosher. To be quite honest, he was expecting something more recreational, like a _toy_ being the most obvious conclusion. Hell, even a stick of Bazooka Joe bubble gum would have been marginally acceptable. It was all very vexing to Norman to say the least, but at least his father had made some effort, even if it did seem rather insubstantial. And so before Norman could even turn from staring at the cover of his book to say his thanks to his dad out of courtesy, his mother was already closing the front door, as his father exited his life for another year.

Then he stared at his mother expectantly, hesitant and uncertain, as she stood solidly against the closed door with a hand gripping the knob. While his father was present mostly by idea, descending to Earth once a year for a few brief moments of mortal divinity, his mother was a constant presence in Norman's life. The dad was just one part of the void, and his mother the other half; and together they created the black hole nebula that pulled him into their emptiness. Because he soon came to understand very quickly that there was something not quite right with his mother, even if he himself had not seen other children and their own moms. Whether it was a combination of instincts or his intuition emerging to one day become the genius profiler he would be, both reasons were completely inconsequential. This was because he was not sure which mother was going to appear right now.

True, he had only one biological mother, but the mind of hers contained several moms, each one a fractional portion of a total whole, and neither one holding true dominance over any other – divided and leaderless in her head, unstable. And as Norman stared at his mother, waiting anxiously and expectantly, would she be nurturing, would she be fun-loving, or would she be…?

She let out a sigh, absent of any identifiable emotion, and then looked at young Norman, stared with deliberation. Then she started advancing, her gait hastened with a sense of purpose, and then stopped next to his seat, towering over him ominously.

Young Norman blinked, let in another dry gulp, and had a mixture of both relief and worry as she cupped his chin gently in her hand to examine him, studying him as if he were some sort of plaything. Then she leaned forward, pressed her lips on his forehead for a quick kiss, and the tense muscles in his body began to relax. And when Young Norman's guard was at its lowest, when his quivering frame started to slouch and sink on his chair, he heard his mother speak.

"Fuckin' ASSHOLE!" she cried, in a voice several octaves far too low, masculine and furious.

Norman's eyes shot open as he jolted awake from his brief coma, the residual side effects of Triptocaine still having a full grip on his body as he lay paralyzed on a medical dolly, surrounded by white washed walls and the smell of antiseptics; in his muddled state, he surmised that he was back as grown-up Norman, and that he was in a hospital, as he heard the hurried steps against linoleum of personnel scattering about, with some of them yelling archaic medical orders to each other. And to his terrible dismay, Carter Blake loomed over him once again, much like earlier after being resuscitated from death in the motel room, and similarly like the vision of his mother on his earliest recalled birthday celebration. The lieutenant's coarse fingers pinched Norman's chin, moving his head side to side in examination.

"You awake, you fuckin' asshole?" Carter grumbled irritably over him. "Can you hear me? Blink once if you can."

Norman Jayden closed his eyes, wishing they would stay closed, but out of reflex from fear of seeing his mom again vividly in his Triptocaine poisoned haze, not wanting to relive a childhood moment where she became the "bad mom," he opened his eyes. And in some sick, demented sort of way, he was somewhat glad for his focus to be clear enough to see Carter, even if he did despise him so. But once he blinked to Carter that he was conscious enough to understand him, his face was thrown harshly to the side, staring limply to the wall next to him, before his head was forcefully righted upward by the lieutenant.

"I brought your sorry ass to Mercy Hospital to flush the Tripto outta your system. But we came at the same time of 28 victims in a freeway car pileup, so the scrub suits got their hands full, and you're at the bottom of their triage," Carter explained slowly, and somewhat haughty, as if he were speaking to a retard.

But in most respects, Carter viewed Norman just the same anyway, what with his overdose stint earlier in that shitty dive which could barely be called a roach motel, surrounded by phials of Triptocaine, laying completely dead on the ground, until he literally _punched_ the life right back into him (after belting out his most incensed f-bomb to date). Then he had to haul his unconscious ass out of the room and towards the car, dragging him into the passenger side, cursing out a slew of obscenities against Norman that would make even an Alzheimer's patient remember, and drove to Mercy Hospital, running through red lights and almost recklessly tailgating another car. Luckily, with his status as a cop, he could abuse the police siren all the live long day, giving him complete immunity to the law he so crookedly served.

And now here they were at a fully frenzied hospital, with its staff treating several patients simultaneously that had been bludgeoned by metal and masticated brutally by twisted steel from their chain of vehicular accidents. Carter had honestly just wanted to dump him and leave immediately once Norman had been in the care of a medical professional, but with nobody able to tend to him urgently, his fate would be uncertain. And he just saved the agent's goddamn life, and wasn't about to lose his victory just because some MD asshats couldn't get to Norman in time. No, with Carter being stubborn as he was, and still not wanting to lose against the game of Death that was still very much being played, he would make sure to see this through the end – that Norman Jayden would survive and live. Lieutenant Carter Blake can't stand to lose and won't lose ever again, not this time, not like in his fractured past.

"_Fucking_ _Norman,"_ Carter thought bitterly, making him relive that day, replicating it in the present.

The only evident difference between that time of his fractured past and the present moment was that, first, the agent was alive, and second, Norman Jayden was no friend to Carter Blake, at least for now. A string of events will soon follow that would start deviating from that standard. At this junction, however, they were merely antagonists, with Carter saving Norman for completely selfish reasons, or so the lieutenant thought anyway.

But for now, Norman was completely paralyzed, a symptom of the body absorbing far too much Tripto. Carter wasn't sure if this could metastasize into a worse condition (besides death of course), but who was he to not shy away from such an opportune moment? A moment where his opposition lay so helpless, with mind divorced from a wilted body.

The lieutenant looked down at Norman, leaned in very close to his face with a devilish smile, all reason cast aside as sinister intent claimed him, and said, "I can do whatever I want with you right now, couldn't I?"

How could Norman respond to this but with a helpless blink? Without full control of his body, the agent was merely the viewer in his own head, like watching events unfold in front of a projection screen of an empty theater, where he was the only member at its audience. In his mind, he was yelling, something and anything to will his body out of its incapacitating torpor. But to his horror, Norman could only watch helpless as Carter would enact his torment onto him, as a punishment for all the times the agent rallied against the several wrongdoings of the lieutenant during the Origami Killer case.

"If I spat a loogie in your mouth right now, would you scream?" Carter said in sadistic delight through grated teeth. "Would you tell me how fucking _wrong_ I am, just like those times in the Origami Killer case, huh?"

He shook Norman's head from side to side by the chin for a reaction, only to limply sway without response. Carter chuckled; oh this was all too good. Norman had called him a psychopath once, well let him be king! The great King Carter Blake, master of psychopaths, their patron saint! Their past working relationship between the two was anything but pleasant anyway – always turbulent and tumultuous, escalating into full out spite, fighting wherever and whenever they went; and even continuing beyond the grim finality of the Origami Killer case, to face the consequences of both their greatest failures.

"C'mon you _pussy_, tell me I'm wrong, say it, I wanna hear it!" the lieutenant spat, his voice rising, almost livid (but to Norman's hazy profiler mind, Carter's voice seemed strangely urgent and despondent).

And Carter continued, shaking Norman by the collar, yelling, "Tell me I was _wrong_, tell me it was _my_ fault, tell me that _I_ let Shaun Mars die!"

He stared hard into Norman's eyes for a few moments, knowing that even without bodily control his mind was somewhere back there. And between them they played this terrible dance, as they navigated about in their insane game of unresolved issues and past differences, with the ring as a giant origami and the taboo stain in the absolute center they avoided was Shaun Mars. And when Norman could not answer, when Carter thought he won this little alpha male posturing skirmish, with pride settling in a form of an indignant chuckle, Norman blinked twice.

And that was all it took to make the lieutenant pissed off, his blood pressure spiking, abruptly silencing his chortle. Carter was beyond caring if those blinks meant "yes" or "no" to his question which he intended to be rhetorical (or so he thought at least on the conscious level). Those two blinks were only simple acts, but such quiet minimalism spoke astronomical volumes. They were the symbol of Norman's continual defiance against the lieutenant in the face of such dire circumstances: drug overdosed and completely paralyzed, yet the Agent still raged against him, butted heads, fought. He may spit down his throat, do the very worst to him, but he would be Norman Jayden, not as the FBI agent, the failure who couldn't save Shaun Mars, but as a man who wouldn't be subjugated by the likes of Carter Blake.

'_Fucking_ Norman, an annoying _twat_ even to the bitter end,' thought Carter.

So out of contempt, Carter did what he claimed he would do without resignation: forced Norman's mouth open harshly, snorted in a gross amount of thick snot, and rumbled his inner passageways to bring out some phlegm to the edge of his throat. He could just imagine it now, with Norman horrified, no longer defiant but dominated by his whims and desires, to be no greater than a kabana boy gratifying his needs, in the most aggressive manner possible. Carter thought that maybe he should just spit into those _fucking_ insolent eyes instead. Those same eyes that still defied him, that still blinked.

And then suddenly, Norman's eyes rolled to the back of his head as his body began to convulse on the medical dolly, a layer of froth bubbling out of his mouth. Carter was aghast, pulling his hand away in shock and almost choking on his own phlegm in the process. It was then that the lieutenant began to cry out in a panic.

"Shit, somebody help! He's having a seizure!"

* * *

_The Thin Man found out that Scott Shelby had developed a new alias as "Sam Douglas" in order to hide himself from any possible recognition. No doubt after the end of the Origami Case, Madison Paige had informed the authorities of her findings, as she was the only person in the circle of events to have gotten close enough to unravel his identity and almost unfurl the latest killing. She was so very close, if only she had cracked the password to Scott's laptop, which would have lead her to saving Shaun Mars. Too bad, now she would have to live with her own personal demons, tormenting her, especially after the news of Ethan Mars committing suicide by blowing his brains out in front of his son's grave._

_But it was also no thanks to Madison Paige that forced Scott into hiding, which might have been the precursor to bring about the Origami Killer's spark of humanity summoned by his own guilt and self loathing. Still, the Thin Man was thankful anyway, because without the worry of authorities, with Scott Shelby using his resources to masterfully evade the police, the Thin Man could execute his plan unfettered - watching Scott Shelby from afar, being a creeping shadow that slinked so close, examining his continued existence unapologetically._

_The Thin Man saw that, while Scott had shaved his head bald to change his appearance, the biggest alteration of all was how much weight the former detective had lost. Before finding him, he had known Scott to be a man of large stature, fearful and indomitable, now he was literally half that size, weak and pitiable. Was this the guilt eating at him? Some form of forced starvation or fasting to cleanse an essence deeper than the body, the soul? Was this another Scott Shelby emerging to give him a visage of a new form, a new shape, something resembling a human? It would be a surprise to an ordinary passerby, had they known Scott Shelby prior, how much he was metamorphosing, almost unrecognizable._

_But the Thin Man knew the moment he saw him in that diner at midnight, solemnly drinking coffee alone in his booth. He knew it was Scott Shelby, because the darkness in the Thin Man could hear Scott's darkness crying back, mewling out a whimper for help, to save it, to resurrect it. It was dying, the light of redemption snuffing it out under its thumb. _

'_There, there little darkness, no need to cry any more, no need to fear, the Thin Man will come to save you little darkness, nurture you, spin you in its web, and then devour you.'_

_First, the Thin Man had to start with a plan, start sleuthing with a question, and then work his way from there. What is it that Scott Shelby desired the most? _

_The answer wasn't readily evident through the surface of the Origami Killer's murders, but the modus operandi was embedded deep within the events that nobody on the outside saw, that only those within his intimate trap could witness. His focus on the whole sordid events was never on Shaun Mars, he was just the pawn, and the elaborate game of chess devised by the Scott Shelby had a much greater scope than that. Madison Paige was just the Queen, Norman Jayden was the Knight, and Carter Blake the Rook, with the King as their centerpiece: Ethan Mars. He was a great man no doubt, self sacrificing despite being extremely self deprecating, but most of all, profoundly human and loving – the perfect father. And Thin Man's plan could have worked so well if Ethan Mars was around to herald the resurrection of the Origami Killer, but alas he had killed himself. The King had been resigned._

_Now the Thin Man would have to find a different man, a different King, a father, someone just as self sacrificing as Ethan Mars, willing to go at all odds to save their only child. And then, the Thin Man suddenly came to a most astounding and wonderful conclusion. He remembered earlier, during one of his many days of tracking the Origami Killer, when he visited a convenience store owned by man named Hassan, the father of Reza, a child victim of Scott Shelby._

_Yes, yes! He remembered, because he was trying to trail Scott Shelby after the Origami Case, and kindly inquired about his visit, using the personal and almost hypnotic charismatic majesty the Thin Man knew he had, one of his quiet strengths and his secret powers. He could convince anyone to say just about anything he asked._

"_Of course I remember Scott Shelby, he saved my life from a robber," said Hassan when the Thin Man asked him about that time meeting the detective._

"_Tell me about the robber," the Thin Man said in a serpentine tone, hypnotic._

"_Oh him, Andrew Barker, he was a troubled man apparently, from what I learned through neighborhood shop gossip-" Hassan sighed sorrowfully "-he was a father, much like myself…And even if he had threatened me with violence, that I should hate the man for it, I can empathize and feel sorry because he did so for the sake of his daughter Jessica." _

_Andrew Barker wasn't a father to a son, the jigsaw piece of this puzzle didn't quite fit precisely, but he would have to do. And as the Thin Man watched from afar, studying Scott Shelby sitting pathetically by his lonesome in a diner booth over a cup of now cold coffee, he knew what must be done. Andrew Barker will be the father Scott will want to test, the delectable meat that dangles above the little shadow within Scott Shelby, as it cries out to consume a victim savagely from the pit, knowing that its terrible hunger needs to be sated. Much like the same, cruel hunger of the Thin Man's darkness, the void in his soul's core that could never be satisfied._

* * *

**Author's Note: Thank you for reading! All comments and constructive criticisms are always welcome. And a big thank for those that have already made an awesome review to my first chapter! :D**


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Story will contain graphic, heavily violent scenes (**like this chapter**), strong language, and adult themes so reader discretion is advised. All characters are property of Quantic Dream and in no way does the author claim any rights to their entities forthwith. Blah blah blah please don't sue.

Chapter III

Even though Norman's body shook with violent, uncontrollable tremors, with his physical being succumbing once again to the residual after effects of Triptocaine, a part of him was glad that his condition escalated enough to be finally wheeled away from the psychopath that was Lieutenant Carter Blake. Though they had worked together on the Origami Killer case, shared the same goal and expectation of capturing the murderer - had their working relationship been so disintegrated that it would escalate to gross, repugnant antics such as spitting down another's throat? If Carter had that much enmity, why save him from death at the motel room in the first place? Somehow there was an answer, and Norman couldn't quite understand it just yet.

His vision of Carter started growing farther and farther away while the Agent was wheeled hastily down the hospital hallway. Then Norman noticed the lieutenant begin to follow, wishing to dear God that he wouldn't, and found relief when a male nurse had impeded his advancements with a hand to Carter's chest. As the nurse began explaining why the lieutenant could not follow, Carter stood quite vexed, looked down at the hand holding him in place, then back at the nurse. Then in a tumultuous torrent that could only be exercised by Carter Blake, he spat at the shocked nurse's face (perhaps the same loogie intended for Norman), then rebuked him further by delivering a powerful cross punch across his temple; the force knocked the male nurse to the adjacent wall then slid down against its surface soon after, unconscious.

Norman almost pitied the nurse if he didn't deem his action foolhardy, because even the agent knew full well that any physical contact with Carter, no matter how miniscule, was just an open invitation to an excessive counter attack; if push came to shove, Carter definitely pushed well beyond the boundaries to the point of perilous disaster. The agent was all too familiar with this, like how the lieutenant was willing to pull a gun on him during their heated interrogation of Ethan Mars during the Origami Killer case, with the only resolution being leave the room immediately or, as Carter so eloquently put it, "paint the walls with your _fucking_ brains." Norman, being an intuitive and logical man, opted to follow his intellect than to react to the rage blazing inside him, and departed without further escalation (though he made sure to throw a couple of chairs in his mini-tantrum exit to show his displeasure). Norman Jayden really meant it when he called Carter Blake a psychopathic asshole during those investigative days working together.

Still, Norman found some of the lieutenant's actions in the past hour a bit puzzling as he was wheeled away. True, Carter did react to everything as he normally would: wrathful and violent. And yet beyond the surface actions seemed a much more subtle, almost empathetic nature…

Or, this could simply be the Triptocane just addling his judgment and perception, as the narcotic was jostling all across his body, his skin feeling like nettles, spiking through his insides going out. Pain, too much pain, his mind didn't have enough constitution to remain conscious through it much longer. Yet through all this, as the drug tried dreadfully to claim him in her sweet embrace, he could see the lieutenant far down that hall as two nurses grappled each of his arms, desperately holding back the deluge that was Carter Blake.

"I want you alive you son of a bitch!" Carter yelled, struggling between his human captors. "Do you hear me, Norman? Alive!"

'_Over my dead body asshole,'_ thought Norman in an acerbic objection.

That wasn't to say that Norman had just conceded defeat, that he would just die on that medical dolly; no, far from it. While the doctors and nurses brought him to an emergency room and started removing his mouth froth with a suction catheter, Norman came to his own personal conclusion. It wouldn't be Carter to decide just because he _wants_ him alive, and neither would the Triptocaine that was overloading his body right down to the axons and dendrites, seizing him further. No, just out of complete scorn for the lieutenant, and by extension the drug he was so sinfully addicted to, it would be Norman himself to settle on his own fate.

Yes, so he did willingly take Triptocane in that motel room, and yes, quite possibly far too much that it would kill him, perhaps a part of him wanting to die. But that was then, when he wallowed in his own pitiable existence of regrets and the desires to forget. He realized now in hindsight that it was an exceptionally rash and an infinitely idiotic thing to have done. And as Norman lay prostrate, wired to machines that beeped erratically at him, forewarning him of a possible grim finality while medical personnel tended to him frantically, he came to the conclusion that he wanted to live. That was all there was to it, a decision marked by his own free will and accord; to grasp at his second chance at life despite the failings he procured with the Origami Killer case, despite having to face the demons of his own failure.

And he will face them all, one by one, standing in a queue or in a massive free-for-all brawl if he had to. Each one hellish in their own torment, each one more sinister than the last; but no matter how fearful they were, no matter how overwhelming they could be, each one was as feeble as an origami figure. Demons would only haunt him if he let them, if he empowered them, gave them what they wanted. And in his vision of near-death, his eyes bore witness to a descending maiden above dressed in flowing blue, her serpentine tongue savagely licking about, gliding downwards in a sweet embrace to claim him. Sweet Triptocaine, the deadliest temptress of them all, the vile demon empress of his life that returned again to make her claim to his soul.

Only this time Norman would not accede; his mind was now his blade and his body the shield, with the entirety of his self the hallowed ground, a sanctified temple of the spirit, not filled with the emptiness of being, but with the powerful distillation of becoming. Norman will become an enforcer, a protectorate, an avatar of righteousness, because there was still a chance at redemption, to be forgiven, to be set free, by capturing the Origami Killer and bringing him to Justice.

So Norman grasped the ethereal maiden's slithering blue tongue into his fist, and viciously pulled back until all her essence spewed out of her orifice, shrieking: the grief, the sorrow, the hopelessness, the regret and all the components that swirled out of the darkness until what remained was a faint shining star. It was warm, solid, with the brightness growing in intensity from each passing moment until Norman was bathed in its palliative essence that seemed to radiate forever.

Then the starlight began piercing his eyes rather obtrusively. It was then that Norman realized that the light he saw now was the illumination coming from a bright pocket flash light. The portable light was turned off and he could see a doctor examining him and talking out loud, but the words came to him muffled and indiscernible, probably an after effect of his events with Triptocaine. Last thing he remembered though were the erratic, shrill sounds of beeping monitors that signaled the harbinger of his death. Now his sense of time shifted forward, having seemingly survived his overdose, as he was stationed in a recovery room partitioned by curtains, hooked up to an EKG machine that showed a steady, rhythmic heart beat, as if to say with each pulse: "Alive. Alive. Alive." The environment here overall was far less hectic than before, no doubt this was where some of the recent emergency room patients were brought in for observation after completion of medical services.

And despite his physically exhausted state, Norman couldn't help but smile. He did it, he actually did it; he defeated the Triptocaine, the greatest and deadliest of his demons. He could just envision it now, the rest of his other nightmares would be easy to conquer, obliterated piece by piece, until all that remained was the empty foundations of what he was, and be able to reconstruct himself into something new. His personal road to Damascus was now a life worth living by a calendar with no dates – unknown and mutable, full of possibilities.

The doctor finished his brief observational check-up and left Norman to recuperate from his ordeal. But the agent's mind churned and meshed, swelling with the static of thoughts, denying his body of the respite it needed. He was quite ecstatic with himself: who'd have thought that dying could be so thrilling, the rush! Well, he reconsidered that it wasn't necessarily the _dying_ part per se, but coming back from it and surviving, that was where the wellspring of his excitement sprung forth. Isn't the inevitability of death from the mortality that begets it the greatest fear of all humans? So, he lived through the danger by his own free-will, conquered death and transcended, slaying the blue Triptocaine beast with his vorpal blade that went snicker-snack!

Jesus, who'd have thought that post Triptocaine overdose could make one so loopy? Or maybe it was the medical concoction running through his IV lines that was causing his half-baked mental cognizance? Norman wasn't quite sure which it was, but he just felt rather empowered, glowing even, like he could jump off the bed and start doing the Macarena. And when Norman tried to sit up, his body wailed with the excruciating intensity of being strained beyond its physical threshold, he could only manage half an inch upward with clenched teeth before flopping back on the bed. He thought that perhaps the Macarena will have to wait, and should just stick to wiggling his big toe.

Still, Norman grudgingly realized that half the credit to his resurrection was partly thanks to Carter. Though conjuring up even the remotest thought that the lieutenant had much to do with his current state of being was both disdainful and grotesque, hell it even made his chest and head pulse painfully for some reason. He wondered if perhaps Carter had played kick-ball with his corpse before applying CPR on his briefly deceased self only an hour or so ago in that motel room. Norman would not put it past the lieutenant, since he was willing to spit down his throat. How abhorrent, how repulsive! Shameful to say the least, Norman should be enraged against Carter for being such an enormous douche bag.

And yet, the agent recalled that moment when he was being wheeled away down the hospital hallway, when Carter was restrained by two male nurses like the bestial savage that he was. He shouted that he wanted him alive, what the _hell_ was that all about? Norman recalled something flickering briefly in Carter's face at that moment, glimmered momentarily in his eyes…was he concerned? Since when did Carter Blake show concern, let alone a shred of compassion, if such a word even existed in his personal vocabulary of F-bombs and S-words, accompanied no doubt with several more archaic diatribes in the language of Carterisms.

The truth was that Norman had seen that concern of his before, a bit earlier in their whole overdose escapade. It was back at the motel room, when the agent was just brought back to life, and they had that moment so bizarre and extraordinary that even an "awkward turtle" could not properly describe it. Carter's fist was pressed firmly on his chest, and both their breaths were quite labored and exerted, staring intently at one another. Then Carter asked Norman if he was okay, in a voice that echoed _concern_ as much as his expression did…

If Norman looked at that moment in another angle, wherein the act of CPR involves the pumping of a vital organ, the physical contact of lips, heavy breaths, the exchange of something internal through one part of the body into another, followed by a climactic exaltation by both parties once the victim is resuscitated by their savior – the entire thing, in a perverted maligned sort of perspective, was all abnormally sexual without even having the context or intention to be amatory. If Norman's stomach, along with the rest of his physical attributes, weren't so sluggishly out of sync with the pace of his mind right now, he was sure that he'd have thrown up a little in his mouth right about now. No, if anything it was just a harmless tete-a-tete moment in the face of imminent danger, nothing more than that, right?

Then the next hazy moment of that event started coming into focus, recalling that massive head butt of Carter Blake after applying CPR to Norman in the motel room. No wonder the agent's skull felt like a railroad spike had lodged itself deeply in his lobe, it was all no thanks to the lieutenant. Suddenly his mind pulsed at the thought, as if another spike was forcefully invading into his skull. Now he started to feel livid, first the head butt and then threat to spit in his throat? How would Carter like it if _he _got head butted, then anesthetized to a table so that he could have _his_ mouth forced open, then spit down _his_ throat? Would he hate it? Would Carter despise Norman more? Would the lieutenant yell out vehemently again to blame him for being responsible for failing to save Shaun Mars?

Norman's string of thoughts jarred to a halt, his intuitive profiler mind wedging itself between his logic from his ire. The pieces of the past events were there, circling his head in their own orbit of incomplete rationales: the anger, the helpfulness, the blame, and most of all, the concern. Each of them were diametric opposites to at least another, clashing against each other, yet tied to a thread that molded them together to create a cohesive whole that was the modus operandi of Carter Blake. Just what exactly _did_ he want?

Before the agent could investigate this query further, a small, blue tank crawled along his blanket, across his left leg. Norman looked puzzled at first, perhaps thinking that some kid's remote controlled toy happened to make its way to his bed. But he froze as another tank rolled in from over the right edge of his bed, scuttling towards him, followed by another at the far end. He recognized these tanks, he had seen them before many, many times during one of his spouts of work boredom – these came from the in-game feature of ARI. Norman tapped two fingers around his eye area to ensure he was not wearing his glasses at all, and sure enough they were not on his face. Last he remembered they fell off before he lay convulsing near death at the motel room, so what was this all about? How could this be happening?

The tanks rolled towards each other, his abdominal area serving as the central battle ground for their virtual war game. The tanks rumbled and flickered, rotating their canons between one another, preparing to take aim and fire. Norman's breaths steadily increased, growing shortened and panicked, his EKG meter pacing faster and faster. What was going on? Was this a post traumatic stress episode? Or the hospital fluids flowing from his IV tubes? Maybe the concussion caused by Carter's head butt earlier? Perhaps a Triptocaine induced hallucination? Before his line of questions could continue, the tanks abruptly stopped targeting at each other, then rotated their canons to the opposite end of Norman's bed. The agent looked quizzical at first, concerned not only of their presence, but why they were looking the other way. Then he followed their line of vision to an ominous figure standing at the end of his hospital bed.

It was a handsome man, exaggeratedly dressed in a rich blue zoot suit, with two coupled silver chains of different lengths running from his waist and down his right pant leg – one arcing short, another dipping low just above his knee. The man had an air of refinement, yet furtively sinister, adjusting his pinstripe necktie accentuated with both lighter and darker shades of blue colors to meld with the hue of his clothing. If only Norman could see this man's face, but all he could identify at that moment was the devious Cheshire grin between a finely shaved dark goatee, just below his blue felt hat that covered his eyes. Then the man's voice rolled out, shockingly familiar, but held behind it a clandestine irregularity:

_Let us go then, you and I,  
When the evening is spread out across the sky  
Like a patient etherized on the table…_

Suddenly, the man in the zoot suit appeared as a ghostly apparition right above him, straddling him by the waist, edging his way closer and closer to Norman's face. If he wasn't auditorily impaired right now, he would have heard his EKG meter spiking rapidly, jumping across its screen in erratic strokes – but why did he hear this handsome man so copacetic? Norman's world began to phase out of focus and into blackness, but not before he could see the visage of his tormentor in blue from under his hat, his eyes shimmering impressively with the same colored intensity as his suit.

The image of Carter Blake grinned maliciously down at the agent, leaning across the length of his body, almost suffocating in his potency, until he felt the crushing concentration of his greatest demon made manifest consume him whole, darkening his vision into the perilous abyss.

And from the blackness, the agent heard Carter's voice, foreboding and echoing: "Thought it was over? It may _never_ be over, Norman."

* * *

_The Thin Man found Scott Shelby to be a man of routine. After all, to be a serial killer, one would have to be particularly methodical in not only the killings, but in all aspects of life, and midnight coffee at a corner 1950s diner was of no exception. Still, watching Scott from afar and observing, with the Thin Man as the scientist and with Scott as the bacterium under his sleuthing microscope, he was starting to feel impatient, and somewhat irritated at the detective. _

_Scott did nothing, he always did nothing. Literally and absolutely nothing of merit, night after night in that godforsaken café, in that same booth, ordering the same single cup of decaffeinated, no cream & no sugar coffee, with the same three counterclockwise stirs before sipping it occasionally for the rest of his time there. Then, he would sigh, his eyes glazed over distantly as he time traveled mentally to whatever particular event he fancied in his past. And he stayed like that for almost half an hour, a hand to his spoon, not a single fiber of his joints budging a centimeter, almost becoming an extension of the booth furniture, until his drink turned cold. Then, he would suddenly snap out of his revere with two blinks, take one last sip of his ice, bitter coffee, then slap a couple of bills on the table and leave._

_The sameness, each and every night, watching his regret poisoning the monster from within, being siphoned and strained, purified into godforsaken humanity. No, the Thin Man knew that this had to stop soon, Scott's darkness was croaking, wailing for help, reaching out with its claws and teeth to tether itself on any handhold to pull itself out of the pit. It only made the mission to reawaken Scott Shelby's monster all the more urgent. Thankfully, he had a little help in order to facilitate in this process, thankful for Nathaniel Williams._

_People like Nathaniel could be so easily swayed, convinced to do anything you wanted them to do. Their malleability was due to their overzealousness in a faith, an idea, a belief to a higher power than themselves, and Nathaniel was no exception. And people like Norman Jayden would so easily dismiss Nathaniel as having a "persecution complex" or men like Carter Blake as him being a twisted, God-fearing idiot. What the agent and the lieutenant couldn't fathom was zealots like Nathaniel simply needed a certain focus, primarily a guide, a leader to temper and shape them into powerful tools to accomplish whatever you wanted them to. And with the Thin Man's supernatural ability to convince the feeble minded with his serpentine charisma, all it took were simple keywords to move Nathaniel into abject servitude._

"_Your God commands you," was the final phrase the Thin Man had said in his first meeting with Nathaniel to convince him to join his cause._

_He had found Nathaniel back during the time of the Origami Killer Case. He saw the religious man was so afraid, uncertain, and most of all full of doubt – not because of the Thin Mans's fortuitous meeting, but at his own faith from an incident that, to this day, remained undocumented and only aware between the both of them, and one other. _

_It started with Agent Jayden and Lieutenant Blake back at Nathaniel's apartment which lead to a heated incident, involving raised guns and certain threats to expel the demon that was Carter Blake. Nathanial's failing to fulfill his threat had shaken him quite deeply to the very bowels of his soul, unable to successfully exercise the Anti-Christ. He was subsequently hauled to the police station for further questioning, which was ultimately routine and uneventful, with the conclusion being that Nathaniel was not the Origami Killer. _

_After the interrogation and holding, they eventually released Nathaniel. While he was glad that his troublesome situation had concluded, how could he have known that holding a gun against the Anti-Christ earlier that day would return to him in a ten-fold vengence? No man appreciates having the barrel of a gun pointing right at their face, especially a man as choleric as Lieutenant Carter Blake._

_So when Nathaniel left the station, he went through the streets to make his way back home, planning to pray forgiveness to those that cast the first stone against him, and to possibly smite certain evildoers; and end the night with several Hail Marys and Our Fathers. It had been raining very hard that night, much stronger than the past few days, enough to obscure the prowling of a vile demon. _

_Then in the din of the eve, Carter Blake emerged from an alley and pulled him into its darkness, throwing him across the air with bestial strength. Nathaniel sailed across the alley and slammed his back against the corner of a dumpster before rolling across the wet ground. Carter advanced towards him with a wrathful vigor, calling him by foul names, all of them severely deprecating: fucking faggot, cum rag, filthy cunt, shit eating piss ant, and so forth until they all blurred together in a mesh of vile evils and curses. Then came the flying foot onto Nathaniel's gut, never realizing that steel-toed shoes could hurt so bad; and it hurt even worse after the second, then third time, expelling the air forcefully from his lungs._

_As the wheezing Nathaniel desperately tried to crawl away from his demonic attacker, egress from the situation by exiting the alley, Carter grabbed him by the ankles and pulled him deeper into the dark, spinning him across the wet ground in a giant 180 arc and tossed him. Nathaniel slid a short distance across the damp floor and onto a stack of plastic garbage bags that collapsed on him. Carter's wrath was far from over, after all Nathaniel had the utter gall to point a gun at the lieutenant of all people, threatening his life, try to kill him. And to the lieutenant, it was only fair the measure should be returned in kind, in the most brutal way possible._

_So Carter took one of the plastic bags, ripped it open, and poured all its garbage over Nathaniel to further his suffering through humiliation. The stench of rotten food and putrid human waste smelled pungent, revolting, staining his clothes and body with their sick juices. Then he took two empty glass bottles of beer from the poured out refuse, put them inside the plastic he recently opened, then rolled them inside bag, and smashed them onto the nearby alley wall, turning them into vicious shards._

"_Get up, fucker!" hissed the lieutenant, picking him up by the throat in a suffocating grip, then slammed him onto the nearby dumpster. _

_When Carter released his vice from his neck, he made sure to throw one solid punch straight across Nathaniel's eye, swelling it. Then he forcefully turned Nathaniel around, cuffing his hands behind him._

"_What-what are you-" Nathaniel desperately cried out as loud as the pain jostling all over his body._

_Carter replied by kicking him savagely on the back of his knee, forcing him on a kneeling position on the drenched ground. Then he hissed in his ear, "Mother fucker, point a gun at me? Try to kill me? When I'm done with you, I'll make the Anti-Christ look like a Charlie Brown Christmas special, cuz I'm far worse than the devil!"_

_The lieutenant pulled Nathaniel's denim jacket off until it rolled down to his cuffed wrists, exposing his back, and further constricting his hand and upper body movements. Then Carter wound up the plastic bag into a taught whip, with the broken glass bulging at its end, exposing a couple of sharp filaments. He took a few paces back, swung out the tight, handmade whip and lashed it across Nathaniel's back. The first strike felt inconsequential, but that was only the precursor to firmly set the glass. It was the second strike that stung, slashing its way through the thin material of his shirt and reaching skin, making him scream. Then the third one came, stinging harder than the one before it, then a fourth, and a fifth, bludgeoning his flesh over and over in criss-cross hatches until the blood flowed freely. Had he not been so castrated and shackled, Nathaniel would have run away, fled from his vicious attacker, but all he could do in his position was roll to the side, lying on his stomach, worming away in a pathetic heap as Carter whipped out again and again. Nathaniel cried out desperately but the rain was roaring so hard that his voice was muted and absorbed by the torrential downpour. This was all so terribly vicious, like reliving one of the stigmatas of Christ himself. It was probably about the thirteenth strike that the glass exploded out of the shoddy plastic material, scattering around Nathaniel, with a few smaller pieces acting as projectiles that dug deep into his flesh._

_And there he laid on the wet floor, with tears and blood flowing out of him as much as the heavy rain that fell from the sky, quivering like some massive, tortured worm. This punishment was all so much, too extreme, why was this happening? Wouldn't anybody help him? All he could think at that moment was this one compelling phrase from the religious text he worshipped so dearly: 'Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?' _

_My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?_

_If only Nathaniel had a gun, oh how he would have used it to enact such heavenly righteousness against Carter Blake, show him the wrath of God! Or more to the sense, the wrath of an absent God, one he felt had abandoned him at his time of need as he lay writhing in pain and agony, under the cascading rain of a darkened evening. Except he recalled what the FBI agent told him that day: "A gun won't work on the Anti-Christ, he's much too powerful than that."_

_So when Carter loomed over him, when the lieutenant's next course of action was to pulverize his teeth in until all was left were his gums, Nathaniel shouted something that left the lieutenant stunned, puzzled, initially unable to hear his words clearly between his bloody sobs and the falling rain. _

"_What did you say to me you mother fucker?" he yelled out, visibly upset, but also incredibly perplexed._

_Then with another mighty heave of a desperate man, with the last breath of his conscious soul, Nathaniel cried to the devil above him: "I…I forgive you!"_

_Forgiveness: more powerful than a bullet, bypassing the barriers of the flesh, and hitting straight to the heart. And for an iota, a long, breathless human moment passed between them. The devil had been expelled, exercised righteously from his furious power, if but for a moment._

_Ah, if only Nathaniel was still conscious soon after when Carter kneeled down and lifted his head up to speak to his face. How would he have reacted to the lieutenant's reply? Would he think that these were the words coming from the true Anti-Christ himself, or perhaps a flawed human being with a darkening deep inside the wellspring of his soul?_

_Because Carter replied, "I don't deserve to be forgiven."_

_He let go of Nathaniel and, out of mercy, uncuffed him. But beyond that Carter left him in the alleyway to stew in his wounds, his face blank but troubled. Perhaps he left him lying there out of anger, or perhaps out of a human sense of incredible shame for self-witnessing the brief flicker of the monster he truly was, the beast he never wanted to be, but became purely so out of circumstance._

_When a few lonely moments had passed, Nathaniel came to consciousness. He groaned, feeling his body as broken as his soul, and by extension his faith in a God. Nathaniel tried to stand, but all he could do was sit up on his knees with gritted teeth, unable to put on his jacket to cover his pain and shame. So with hissed, painful breaths, he removed his jacket, then sat there under the rain feeling scared, helpless and utterly alone; the world felt like a realm of hidden monsters where the angels on high were just devils dancing and laughing at mortals under the pale moonlight. He could not have been more right to say the least, as a greater monster far worse than the Anti-Christ, than even Carter Blake himself, emerged from the shadows and calmly approached Nathaniel with purpose._

_The Thin Man came to the fallen, bloodied man, put a hand out to raise him up, and said, "Come follow me, and I will make you a fisher of men."_

_Nathaniel looked up, the lamppost from the street illuminating the Thin Man in a radiant silhouette of light, revealing his shadowed frame – a dark angel descending from the heavens! Eli! Eli!_

"_Your God commands you," the Thin Man said, in his hypnotic and serpentine voice, alluring and deeply compelling._

_Then Nathaniel accepted the Thin Man's hand, and was drawn in by his dark, otherworldly divinity. _

_And ever since that time, Nathaniel had followed the Thin Man like a true apostle – loyal and unquestioning. And yet the Thin Man saw him no more than a tool, a useable means to a grandiose end for the master plan to resurrect the Origami Killer and then brutally slay the monster for the sake of Justice in a world without. And as long as the Thin Man gave Nathaniel the God he wanted, he would blindly follow him even to the precipice of death._

_For now, Scott's darkness must be revived, resuscitated. It was a bit irksome to collect the necessary pieces to address this issue, but it was well worth it, as the Thin Man held a simple brown box in his hands. He would give this object to Scott himself, but it was far too soon in the plan for the two to meet, not yet. Their meeting had to be cultivated, aged well like fine wine, until the precise moment when the two can share each other's darkness, until the Thin Man can consume his._

"_Give this to him," commanded the Thin Man to Nathaniel with authority. "Leave it on his table."_

_Nathaniel took the box without question, and replied, "Yes, my Lord."_

_He watched Nathaniel scuttle away, slinking under street lamps and awnings, until he reached the diner. Nathaniel entered, scurried towards Scott Shelby who was sitting frozen and despondent, no doubt deep in his trance of regret: whether it be the loss of his twin brother, or perhaps his last killing as the Origami Killer, with the death of Shaun Mars and the eventual suicide of Ethan Mars, they made no difference – all reasons were inconsequential. What was important was that he reach out to the monster within Scott soon, make first contact, and guide him through the Thin Man's twisting maze of deception and murders._

_Nobody took particular notice of Nathaniel, he seemed to have a way to keep himself obfuscated, scrambling narrowly as a sewer rat would between pipes. The Thin Man chose his apostle very well, no better man suited to be the extension of his righteous arm than the overzealous Nathaniel, a wonderful servant indeed._

_And as quickly as Nathaniel entered, he scampered towards Scott's table, laid the box down quietly on the edge, then scrambled out of the diner. He dodged under lights and overhangs before returning to the Thin Man, looking at him expectantly._

_Then he both respectfully and fearfully lowered his gaze from the Thin Man and said, "I have done your bidding my Lord."_

_And, as a master to its pet, he put a hand to his forehead and simply uttered the words: "Bless you child. You may take your leave now."_

"_Thank you, my Lord." And Nathaniel crawled back into the darkness._

_Meanwhile, the Thin Man observed Scott Shelby, watching and waiting patiently for him to break out from his revere. And when he did, the man took notice of the box laying at the edge of his diner table, looking absolutely puzzled. The words "To the Origami Killer" were penned neatly and precisely on its cover. He was not quite sure where it came from, what to do with it, let alone what its purpose was. But despite its mysterious arrival and circumstances, it called to him, allured him, beckoned for him in some unheard siren song, claiming him. The darkness within, the beast inside Scott knew and understood; in the language of killers, the Thin Man was calling to him through this box, calling towards the Origami Killer._

_So Scott drew the box close to his person, paused, waiting, deliberating. This was an impasse, the two roads diverging: one leading to humanity, the other leading him back to the darkness. He placed two hands on the side of the cover, his palms magnetized to its surface, feeling a deathly pulse as a tiny surge of the killer within grew, swelled. Then he lifted the cover, his inner monster metastasizing, emerging from its egg, returning; the remnants of a residual humanity burning out._

_And when he completely opened the box it was as if a geyser sprung forth from within, the darkness claiming, returning to fill his void with a greater abyss; its monstrous form breaking free, rising, its wings of desire unfurling. Because Scott saw three objects from within the box: the first two was an origami figure and an orchid to serve as the reminder of who he was – the Origami Killer – and the other was a photograph of Andrew Barker._

_At first he looked at the picture, mystified with a sense of unfamiliarity. Then slowly, like the dawn rising at the edge of a horizon, he recognized him as the man he had stopped during the robbery at Hassan's convenience store on his last Origami Killer foray. He stared at the photo for a moment, and then flipped it over to read the one word that would fully bring to life his inner, cruel beast._

_Father._

_And the Thin Man mirrored the same wide smile as Scott Shelby's, knowing that the darkness became manifest, knowing that the Origami Killer had returned._

* * *

**Author's Note: Thank you for reading! All comments and constructive criticisms are always welcome. And a big thank for those that have already made an awesome review to my other chapters! :D**

**I also wanted to take this time to inform you fine readers that there are a couple of excellent and entertaining audio interviews I've found of Leon Ockenden done by a podcast called Playstation Chat. For those of you who are Norman Jayden fans, and want to get to know the man behind the "Nahman" these interviews are well worth your time. The dude is a pretty funny guy!  
**

**If you're interested, I've left a detailed post at the Heavy Rain community message board which contains the links for download:** **forum(dot)fanfiction(dot)net/topic/73306/39396354/1/ **

**Sorry for the (dot) in the web address but fanfiction website parses website links to prevent spam bots, including links to its own website :\  
**

**In addition, the guys at Playstation Chat will be interviewing Pascal Langdale (actor for Ethan Mars) in the next week or so, you should totally send them some questions to ask him via the Playstation Chat podcast! Otherwise, I'll be posting up the link when it's released on the author's note of my next chapter. :)  
**


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Story will contain graphic, heavily violent scenes, strong language, and adult themes so reader discretion is advised. All characters are property of Quantic Dream and in no way does the author claim any rights to their entities forthwith. Blah blah blah please don't sue.

Chapter IV

Carter reluctantly continued his work at the police station after the whole Triptocaine incident with Norman. Sure, the agent was recovering at Mercy Hospital (as well as the male nurses who received some bruises and black eyes after failing to restrain the Lieutenant), but even so that didn't mean Carter's world had to stop abruptly. Rather, in an unscrupulous world of law enforcement, the Lieutenant's reality could never stop, especially with the most dreadful and unglorifying part of police work was ever so present: filing daily reports into the database. He had quite a backlog of reports to begin with even before the Origami Killer case. And at first Carter ignored them, procrastinating, convincing himself he had better obligations to fulfill (like maybe catching a serial killer for example). Then over time the reports began piling exponentially, mushrooming even, ebbing their way irritatingly into his life until it became this unbearable shit bag eyesore he just had to shovel up and toss away.

And his enthusiasm to today's series of filing reports was no different, much like the exuberance of a child on Christmas day receiving a sack of yellow onions as gifts – disdainful and utterly appalling. When it came to reports, Carter preferred to start with the newest ones coming in fresh for the day, then slowly work his way backwards in the hopes that, perhaps, the unreported will eventually get shuffled to another less fortunate soul also suffering in mundane file-reporting limbo. And most of the time this actually worked, to the derision of most his fellow officers. But popularity with Carter was just incidental to him in the police force, he was simply all about getting the real job done: catching the criminals of the city's underbelly, no matter the cost, including the still uncaptured Origami Killer. And if it took rolling office report bullshit to somebody else down the pyramid, so be it, as long as Carter was not hanging out at the bottom to have the dung be defecated all over him.

So the first report of the day started with a man who came into the police station visibly distraught and worried. He went to the front desk, spoke to the attendants there for a few moments, and was brought over to Carter's station soon after. As the man took a seat the Lieutenant watched his solemn expression from across the desk, noticing the man's eyes staring to the ground, as well as his slouched posture and wrung hands, accompanied with his disheveled hair and unkept stubbly beard. It was all strangely recognizable, like a reminiscent and ethereal form of Ethan Mars. The feeling of familiarity unsettled Carter, but he simply dismissed it as a passing after-thought.

"How can I help you today, mister…?" Carter's voice trailed off.

"Andrew Barker," said the distressed man. "I'm here about my daughter, she's missin'…"

If Andrew's kid had been a boy, the incident could have hinted at the modus operandi of the escaped Origami Killer, and Carter would have lunged at the opportunity for a fresh lead on the case. However, being that she was a girl, and knowing that the Origami Killer hunted only boys, Carter was ambivalent. He was naturally concerned of course, but also somewhat anxious, wanting to file the report already and perhaps procrastinate the day further by getting a cup of the headquarters' renowned bitter-as-hell coffee.

"I was there at the Covered Market with my kid Jessica this mornin'," recalled Andrew Barker, adding, "She said she wanted to look at the chicken cages while I bought some salmon for lunch. I was quick about buyin' it, ya see, and when I turned back, she was gone…"

Carter was familiar with the Covered Market. It was one of the more popular and larger places in the city where a lot of citizens congregated daily; the density of people was unfortunately an optimal condition to steal away any child unnoticed. The Lieutenant also knew this area as the place where he and Norman apprehended Miroslav Korda, one of the two people originally suspected to be the Origami Killer. Well, it was more like Norman who caught the suspect; Carter was particularly reluctant at the time and lagged purposefully to let the Agent sweat a little. He figured Norman should get his uncalloused pretty boy hands dirty with some action for a change. The Lieutenant had to hold back a mischievous grin at the memory as he continued to type up the report on the computer.

"What time did you two arrive at the Covered Market?" asked Carter. "And what was your daughter wearing when she disappeared? Try to remember exactly, every detail can be important."

"Probably about 9:30 AM, and she wore a light-blue jacket and cargo pants, and she had my black beanie cap," said Andrew slowly, his lower lip quivering as his voice began to crack. "Jessica always loved my cap ya know, such a daddy's girl, and now she's missin' and…"

Carter immediately looked back towards his monitor to avoid being humanly touched by Andrew's authentic melancholy and typed up the preliminary missing person's information into the police database. He did so halfheartedly this time, not because he was predisposed to being an unsympathetic jerk-face, but primarily because the Lieutenant was starting to get distracted with another matter slowly dancing in his head, occupying his thoughts: Norman Jayden.

He thought Norman to be a complete imbecile to get overdosed. The Agent would have surely been far too dead to be brought back by any means had he not called the Lieutenant earlier that night to scream collegiate obscenities at him (half of them Carter didn't even understand, but he determined the context behind each haughty diatribe was anything but pleasant). And just when the Lieutenant barreled through the door of an obscure motel room at the edge of town, wanting to beat the living shit out of Norman for what he said over the phone, he saw the Agent sprawled on the dirty carpet in his own pathetic shame and Triptocaine vials. Then he saved him by applying CPR, and Carter didn't even want to venture down the skewed abnormality behind such an activity: two full grown men, making lip contact, the breathlessness, and man sweat, the urgency, ending in fulfillment. All of it was so oddly prurient if not intimate, especially afterwards when the Lieutenant felt the beating heart of the revived Agent with a fist to his chest, as if some unnamed connection was finally bridged and forming between them.

But he dismissed the whole event as just another peg to add towards Carter's many reasons why he didn't like Norman Jayden; hell he _reviled_ him (or so he thought). Even when they first met on that one rainy evening in that stretch of wasteland to investigate another crime scene of the Origami Killer, Carter already had this wall of enmity between the two. Sure, there was the standard half-hearted cordiality and self-introduction that came when two people met for the first time.

"_We're on the same team now!"_ Carter had said to Norman at that time with artificial congeniality, followed by a click of his mouth, a small wave and an overly sincere wink.

However in those few seconds upon their first meeting, Carter already sensed they would be anything but a team. His preliminary judgment of Norman was this: the Agent was a polished, porcelain, bureaucratic asshat; an unwelcomed outsider, some foreign invader, no less than a virus penetrating the membrane of his police world nucleus. And from that point onward in the case, Norman was always at ends against Carter, continually countering the Lieutenant with intuitive answers backed by logical examinations or other alternative solutions to remedy problems in an ethical approach.

Norman even single handedly disseminated the entire two years worth of Carter's investigations on the Origami Killer with one simple meeting between him, Perry, and Ash, using analytical slide shows streamlined from his fancy glasses while discussing specifics with elevated psychology jargon (but the Lieutenant made sure the agent knew he was a "fuckin' asshole" anyway). Ultimately, Norman always challenged him, making the Lieutenant briefly evaluate his own actions, and for just a flicker of a moment, Carter would feel rather foolish.

Except he was no fool, he was Lieutenant _fucking_ Carter Blake, master and commander of the homicide task force assigned to navigate through the tumultuous waters of the Origami Killer investigation! His gun was his mast and his fists were his sails, with his biting words the wind that carried him through this dangerous journey – he was the unstoppable force!

And yet, Norman Jayden was there in his life as the assigned partner to the case. The agent was always equable, carrying with him his own mountainous atmosphere: his intellect was the rising ground, his logic the solid crags, his words the impenetrable wall of defiance – he was the immovable object.

No wonder the two were at odds, they were completely dichotomous in nature, the quintessential polar opposites. And Norman upset the Lieutenant beyond a personal threshold, even without being physically present, to the point of dominating his thoughts in moments when his mind was least guarded. And yet despite all of that, Carter saved Norman from his Triptocaine overdose, compelled by a greater sense of being, perhaps to redeem himself for his fractured past. Or perhaps it was what Carter felt all along, sensing something more when it came to Norman, something beyond the Lieutenant vs. Agent battle they always fought.

His thoughtful momentum suddenly shifted, and wondered how the Agent would be fairing right now, if he was recovering well at Mercy Hospital. After all, Carter did yell out to him that he wanted him alive, and it seemed he got his wish, which made him feel particularly elated, if not continually worried for his wellbeing.

Yet more to the point, he immediately countered his own concern for the Agent with skepticism: _why_ should he even _care_ how the fuckin' asshole was doing? Didn't Carter dislike Norman so utterly? But he did save his life, who wouldn't at a chance at personal redemption? Except somehow, the real truth behind the façade, beyond the anger and his so-called redemption, was that his intentions were not as selfish as it seemed, but something much more compassionate and personal.

"Lieutenant!" cried Captain Leighton Perry from across the room, breaking Carter's thoughtful revere. "Meeting in my office, immediately!"

Carter gave a low, throaty growl of annoyance. When Captain Perry summoned you into his office for an immediate meeting, it meant that you were in for some dreadful news. And for Carter's case, it was no doubt going to regard the search progress on the Origami Killer, which honestly, didn't make any leads since Madison Paige's testimony two months ago. And even then, her words were circumstantial at best, the greatest lead being an amnesiac woman by the name of Ann Shephard who had passed away the day after Madison's statement, taking with her the possible confirmation to the killer's true identity. The reporter did claim that there was a laptop at the killer's apartment that she couldn't hack into which had all the concrete information needed to convict him; but that piece of evidence was caught in a gas explosion. Searching the suspected Origami Killer's ruined dwelling afterwards yielded no such object, not even pieces of a hard drive or a silicon part of a data chip. So either the computer never existed, was atomized in the explosion, or was cleaned out professionally so that no traces of it could be found.

He considered the first option, since Carter sensed there was something not quite right with Miss Paige that made him doubt her. There was something in her eyes, restless and anxious, ones that seemed bothered by ghosts of the past; eyes that were very much like his. But beyond dead evidence from an equally dead witness, a fantasy computer that never existed, and a possibility that the entire lead by Madison Paige was all completely suspect based on personal hunch, there had been no further advancement at all in the past two months. And now, Carter would have to explain his lack of findings on the Origami Killer case to his superior officer who would, no doubt, be highly displeased.

"Ash," Carter called to his fellow officer from across his desk. "Help out Mr. Barker will ya?"

Ash nodded and made his way over to his workstation, replying with an impartial tone, "Yes Lieutenant."

'_Well, looks like shit does roll downhill after all…'_ thought Carter disappointedly since it was not quite the circumstances he was expecting.

Carter respected Ash enough to treat him as an equal despite their separation in ranking; hell, Ash was probably the only person in the entire precinct whose presence was acceptable to the Lieutenant, as well as one of the few who could stand his acerbic nature. Simply put, he liked him enough that he didn't want to push his report filing to Ash, but he was the only other officer that was better qualified in handling a missing person case properly. Perhaps Carter would show his thanks later by giving him a brotherly slap on the back, which was the most humbling that the Lieutenant would ever be in front of his peers, and as rare an event as seeing a double rainbow across the sky. As Carter stood up from his desk and began walking to Perry's office, Andrew shot his hand out urgently and grabbed him by the wrist.

"Please, Lieutenant, find my lil' girl, she's all I've got left…" Andrew pleaded.

Had it been any other man at that moment, Carter would have rebuked the unwanted physical contact by pushing said person harshly away, maybe even throw in a back hand as well since he was feeling particularly irate by Perry's summons. But when the Lieutenant looked into Andrew's eyes, he saw such a deep, morose expression as tears dared to break out from the edge of the father's lids. It was like seeing the shadow of Ethan Mars made manifest inside Andrew, a man who cared deeply for his child. This stirred a sense of uneasiness within the Lieutenant, bordering between a fine line of shame and guilt from failing to save a son for a loving father, failing both Shaun and Ethan Mars.

"Please…" Andrew croaked out in a whimper as a single tear fell down his cheek.

Carter cleared his throat from a sudden tightness he felt, then replied, "Mr. Barker, we'll do our best to find Jessica."

And when Andrew released his grip, the Lieutenant quickly turned and walked away. He did not want anyone to see him now, to see that the mighty and powerful Atlas statue that was Carter, who held behind him the respect and authority of the world that came with a man of his police status, had the visage of the tiniest cracks in the furthest and most vulnerable part of his chiseled character. In that, perhaps, the magnificent asshole Carter Blake did have a heart after all.

He stood before the Captain's office, composed himself quickly with a deep breath, and exhaled to extinguish whatever weakness was emerging. And when Carter felt he had centered himself back to his Lieutenant persona, he briskly entered Perry's office and closed the door behind him. He immediately noticed that the Captain was standing next to his desk, fiddling with an unwound tie around his neck with great difficulty, struggling to knot it in earnest.

"Lieutenant, help me with this neck-tie will you?" Perry asked, lifting one tail end of the tie in the air. "I've a press conference in 10 minutes and I need to look presentable."

Carter's jaw tightened out of aggravation, feeling his blood pressure rising. He was not too fond of Perry's personal summons, especially when it involved the neck-tie scenario. For one thing, everyone in the station knew that when he called you into his office to fix his tie, it was all just a precursor. This was his way of entering into your personal zone, creating an inescapable box so that the Captain could snare you in his trap to sternly scrutinize you with what was running in his mind. Particularly, this trick was saved for those whom he felt upset with, either with the work they were doing, or simply for their interjecting presence. He did this before with Norman Jayden; and much like Carter, Perry was not too fond of the agent's company either.

He and Perry worked together for over a decade now, and never felt any real enmity between each other's presence. So that would mean that the Captain was disappointed with his lack of progress on the search for the Origami Killer. Carter let out a small sigh as he grudgingly approached Perry to do what was asked of him. He didn't like being someone's personal butler, especially when there was clandestine purpose behind it, but he had to respect the authority of Perry; he was, unfortunately, his commanding officer. So the Lieutenant took the end pieces of his tie in each hand, with the superior officer looming over his subordinate with a puffed out arrogant chest, the closeness uncomfortably invasive to Carter.

"I hope you've made progress in the Origami Killer case, Lieutenant?" asked Perry, sounding rather condescending, as Carter was certain the Captain knew full-well the answer to this.

After all, he was the archetypal Wizard of Oz in the land of his police munchkins, lording over all of them with the foresight to perceive what happened in his own precinct. Regardless, with Carter at the mercy of Perry, he had no choice but to answer anyway. It was particularly emasculating to the Lieutenant to say the least, but it was better to respond, even if the inquiry was rhetorical.

"No sir," answered Carter, opting for the more pragmatic approach than to cover it with a saccharine lie. He took the large end of Perry's tie and went under the narrow side of it.

"Of course you haven't," said the Captain derisively. "I give you a lot of leniency with your work Lieutenant Blake. Your methods are good and effective, but also highly questionable, yet that doesn't bother me since we both share the same practicality when it comes to getting the job done."

"Yes sir," replied Carter in a nonplussed manner. He wasn't quite sure where this conversation was going, as he continued to weave the tie by bringing the big tail up and through the neck loop.

"Considering that the case is fast becoming cold-" continued the Captain, "-I've talked with the FBI on the matter and we both agreed that you and Agent Jayden will continue with the investigation to the very end."

Carter's heart skipped a beat, in shock? Disdain perhaps? Or maybe it was some deep, secret sense of unexplained excitement? To work with Norman again made Carter actually pause for once; he could not precisely pin the emotion he was feeling as he stopped in mid tying and could only blurt out a query, "Sir?"

But the Captain kept his explanation going unfettered: "When Agent Jayden was assigned to this investigation, you two made great progress despite your…dysfunctions as partners. But I'm sure you two will work through your differences this time and catch the Origami Killer, because if you don't..."

Carter's movements on the necktie continued but churned slowly as he went over the knot, absorbing and filtering the information that was coming in.

"…Somebody needs to take the _fall_," said Perry ominously.

Then it came to Carter clearly, the realization hitting him like an uppercut to the chin. Of course somebody had to take the fall, the investigation had been going on for over two years now. And what had the police to show for it? Circumstantial evidence, lose ends, and a line of coffins alongside broken and unrecoverable families, each one an ignominious reminder of the horrible truth that there was Justice for no one in this cruel world.

And Perry was absolutely right about having the same practicality as Carter when finishing the job. Except for the Captain's case, it was to throw a fellow subordinate under the bus to be lambasted and crucified by the public, as the superior officer would remain unsullied and blameless.

Carter knew Perry loved the limelight, all the attention with the glitz and the cameras, like being the pinnacle example of lawfulness and Justice. Except recently it had been anything but that, with the public extremely unsettled and savagely out for blood, with a strong desire to point a finger at somebody, wanting a figure to blame, to make a reason for all the senseless child killings - and the Captain would not be that target.

"It's either the Origami Killer, or one of you two," said Perry coldly. "That's all there is to it."

And Carter strung up the necktie to its last knot, a little too forcefully at the end, and let go. The Captain chortled for a moment as he felt the tight pressure around his neck, and understood this was just the Lieutenant's way of silent rebellion, obviously displeased by the latest set of news. But Carter had no authority in the situation while all of it was in Perry's hands; the commanding officer was not intimidated in the slightest by his subordinate's antics. So the Captain loosened his own tie at the neck ring, then cleared his throat.

"Understand, Lieutenant?" asked Perry with a tone as stern as his stare.

And just like that time when Carter first met Norman in that stretch of wasteland, the Lieutenant gave a click of his mouth, followed by a small wave and an overly sincere wink, then ending with a tone of artificial congeniality and said, "Yes _sir!_ After all, we're on the same team!"

Of course they were anything but the same team. However, it was sarcasm at its finest, and the Lieutenant was a pure unadulterated savant. Because team player or not, Carter knew how to be an asshole, even if he was cornered by a bigger animal, just so he could psyche out his opponent. And the beast that was Perry simply regarded the Lieutenant's actions as merely a bark with no bite, but even jaws are capable enough to tear through savagely if left without a muzzle. Their little game of alpha dog posturing was at a stalemate for now, but the Captain still had a few rounds of ammunition to spend.

"Now if you'll excuse me, I have a press conference to attend to. The people will be disappointed to hear about the lack of progress on the case…" Perry said as he adjusted his tie once more to make it comfortable on himself. "Hmm, not a bad knot Lieutenant, but Agent Jayden was _better_."

It was a first shot, a minor grazing blow against the Lieutenant's ego, being compared disparagingly to his despicable counterpart, and obviously not because of the tie, but subtly in overall capacities and attributes as an investigator. Carter was about to shrug the petulant, off-handed comment as Perry walked to the doorway. But as the Captain opened the door, he looked back at the Lieutenant with a hard and knowing expression.

He said grimly, "You best catch the Origami Killer, Lieutenant. We can't afford to keep _failures_ in our task force."

Second shot, through the chest and straight to the heart, and Lieutenant Carter Blake was brutally put beside himself shamefully. As Perry closed the door behind him, the Lieutenant balled his hands into powerful, clenched fists until the knuckles turned white, knowing that not only was his once affable superior now a fierce enemy, but that he was reminded of all his own failures in the past two year. All of them were the nine boys, victims of the Origami Killer, helpless, drowning, just as painfully as Carter was in his own dishonor, with the clandestine tenth figure towering above all of them in an eclipsed shadow; the Lieutenant's fractured past, his greatest failure was always beckoning him, unforgivable and inescapable.

* * *

_The Thin Man had a hunger that could never be satisfied. This isn't to say it was the hunger of the body, the base primal necessities such as eating or intercourse. No, his hunger was much deeper, much more resounding through the infinite emptiness of his soul, the one that cried out for the need of true Justice in a world so very absent of it; a rotten world where the criminals like the Origami Killer roamed freely, while the innocent were tormented and punished, till death suffocated them in a their tomb of lament. _

_He needed to devour their evils, their criminal sin was their flesh and the Thin Man's twisted form of Justice was the his sharpened teeth to eviscerate and masticate them, swallow their darkness until it mingled in a violent, cannibalistic intercourse inside his spirit's belly. And while Scott Shelby was his savored delicious main course, there were plenty of guilty pleasures that would serve as his appetizers. The Thin Man had to wait for the right time to claim Scott, devour and consume him; after all, his white whale had only recently been rebirthed into the world, no doubt busy with setting the upcoming twisted trials for Andrew Barker to save his daughter Jessica._

_So the Thin Man selected Brad Silver to temporarily alleviate his dark hunger. During his personal investigations in tracking down Scott Shelby, one of his leads brought him to Brad who was involved in Ethan Mars' fourth "Shark Trial." The objective of this trial was to simply kill the drug dealer, but somehow during their vicious scuffle around the apartment, Ethan Mars remained largely unsuccessful. The Thin Man couldn't ascertain why this trial went unresolved, after all Ethan Mars had navigated the dangers of reverse freeway travel, crawled through broken glass and high voltage wires, and even brutally dismembered his own finger to save his son Shaun. Going that far in the Origami Killer's trials, why wasn't Ethan able to kill Brad? Was it because he was a father too, and out of mercy he opted to not execute him?_

_But Brad Silver was a crook, a criminal, the scum of society! Just because Brad was a father of two girls did not excuse his actions as a drug dealer, trafficking in dope, Triptocaine, and other narcotics to junkies all over town. Hell, Brad even sold his junk to the corrupt police force of the city as filthy bribes, making him largely invulnerable and invisible to the law. Such perversion sickened the Thin Man to his very skin, knowing that a rotten man leeched off the fat of people's weaknesses and addictions, and never feeling the divine wrath of judgment._

_No, no more. The Thin Man concluded that it was time for Brad Silver to be punished for his crimes, and that he would use Nathaniel once again to accomplish his bidding. This was, after all, a perfect opportunity to further mold his little disciple into his wonderful, manipulated instrument. _

_So when the Thin Man told Nathaniel of the plan, and the danger it could entail, the devotee was naturally anxious at first, knowing that confronting the drug dealer antagonistically could lead to certain demise. In fact, having been told of the incident with Brad Silver and Ethan Mars in their deadly conflict with guns blazing all around the apartment did nothing to quell Nathaniel's fears. At one point the religious disciple had begun to protest in earnest._

"_Please my Lord," begged Nathaniel on his knees, hands clasped together. "Have mercy, I am afraid…"_

_But the Thin Man had simply placed a reassuring hand to his forehead, blessing him, endowing him with an illusory sense of strength, manipulating Nathaniel's binding chains of faith._

"_Even though you walk through the valley of the shadow of death, you will fear no evil, for you are with Me," said the Thin Man in his compelling tone. "You will follow through with this important task, your God commands you." _

_And that was all it took for the Thin Man to convince his fanatic devotee to proceed with the plan._

_It all started on a relatively quiet Thursday afternoon, where Nathaniel was instructed to approach Brad Silver at his apartment. And when Nathaniel was there, he stood outside the dealer's apartment with a fearful edge racing through his body, raising a shaking fist towards the door, gulping in nothing but dryness in his mouth, hesitating. It was only when Nathaniel recalled the words from his Lord, and how important it was to fulfill the duty assigned to him, did he finally knock on the door. There was a moment of silence after the first knock, and before Nathaniel could raise his hand to knock a second time, Brad opened the door. The dealer looked haggard in his red bathrobe, with bleary squinty eyes and an unkept set of grey hair – all characteristics of a grumpy man obviously disturbed from his slumber._

"_Yeah, what do you want?" grumbled Brad in a bleary tone, glowering._

_Nathaniel's hands shook apprehensively as he stammered, "I…I'm…"_

_The dealer took immediate notice of the man's seemingly uncontrollable shaking fists, the profuse amount of sweat on his brow, and his quivering voice. Then his instincts told him that there was just something not right with this person. Ergo: his symptoms seemed to indicate possible narcotic withdrawals or dependencies of some kind, so he further surmised that Nathaniel must have been one of his druggie clients. Although quite on the contrary, the man before him was simply nervous; but to the mind of a dealer like Brad, the world was a stage, and all the people were just actors dressed in dancing dope bags, Triptocaine vials and various other drugs, with him at the center, surrounded by piles of wonderful, corruptible cash. Regardless, Brad considered Nathaniel's presence a nuisance, and wanted to do away with him as quickly as possible._

"_Shit…" growled Brad irritably, advancing forward with a threatening gait. "Didn't I tell you junkie dick wads a thousand times I want none of my business at my door?"_

_Without warning, Nathaniel drew a gun from behind him, holding it desperately with both hands and recited, "Angels and ministers of grace defend us…"_

_There was a tense moment as the two suddenly squared off, with Nathaniel preparing to fulfill his duty even if it meant his life. Instinctually, Brad held up his hands to show his nonthreatening position and took one slow step back._

"_Okay buddy, there's no need to get violent," Brad said as he began to mediate the situation by adding, "So what, you want some cash, some dope? Maybe a bit o' Tripto? I'm sure we can make a deal…"_

_But Nathaniel stood his ground, neither moving backwards or forwards, which the drug dealer found a bit strange how his assailant was not taking further initiative. Brad, having faced this type of danger before in his line of illicitus work, was quite familiar with this little tango: guy pulls gun, guy moves forward a few steps, guy makes threats and asks for drugs or cash, Brad goes back a few steps, Brad tries to negotiate out of the situation – and ends with either Brad getting his ass kicked then has his business prospects stolen, or Brad fights back and kicks the other guy's ass. And for Brad, he preferred to aim for the winning option, especially if he wanted to take advantage of Nathaniel's unmoving position._

_So Brad pulled a shotgun from the umbrella holder next to the doorway and aimed it dangerously towards Nathaniel's head. Discretion was indeed the better part of valor, a lesson he learned on his last encounter with Ethan Mars two months prior. Brad was ready this time, and he wasn't about to let some religious zealot kill him. Fuck that, no more risks like the Ethan Mars incident; Brad would be proactive in protecting himself and his investments._

"_Get the FUCK, outta my face you junkie asshole!" screamed Brad, taking an intimidating step forward, shaking his shotgun further ahead to visually iterate the firepower advantage he had._

_Brad would have fired instantly without warning, but considering that Nathaniel didn't trespass into his property, there would have been far too much red-tape police bullshit he'd have to hustle through. He wasn't too particularly keen in having to deal with the story of how a dead body ended up outside the residence of a notorious drug peddler like him. If that happened to be the case, either Brad would have go about it with exhausting explanations to the police or sell out drug bribes to them, which he just couldn't afford right now. So he opted to intimidate his attacker to leave the premises for necessity sake, and it seemed to be working effectively._

_Nathaniel was visibly shaken, the pistol rattling in his hands as fear gripped him. He was no killer, just a humble servant of his Lord, and Nathaniel only had the gun in his hands for protection against the demons of the world, and the divine phrase bestowed to him by his God before the ordeal – empowering him, guiding him. His shaking began to subdue, feeling himself centered as his fears were gradually abated._

"_Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…" said Nathaniel in prayer, unmoving and holding his ground steadfast, his faith rooting him, his firearm still aimed at the drug dealer._

_Brad raised an eyebrow with confusion, but was also irate that Nathaniel wasn't standing down from their tense standoff. He took another stride forward outside the boundary of the apartment entryway, hoping to terrorize the man further with the shotgun aimed close to Nathaniel's face. It was so near that anyone could certainly see right into the metal chamber of the shotgun from where Nathaniel stood. Maybe Brad ought to shoot him anyway just to get rid of this bozo. At least he could survive a single bullet wound if he were to be shot, but nobody can survive a buck shot blast to the head a foot away._

"_Last chance junkie, get outta here or I blow off that fuckin' head of yours!" screamed Brad, his finger pressed firmly over the trigger._

_But Nathaniel let out a slow exhale, and only replied with the final phrase of his prayer: "I will fear no evil, for I am with Him."_

_There was an uncomfortable pause, as the religious man looked away from Brad and anxiously to his left. The dealer was puzzled for an iota, wondering what the man before him had been staring at, and curiously glanced off to the side._

_The Thin Man had been waiting there, invisible from view at the side of the doorway. And with Brad in his sights, he grabbed the shotgun at mid-barrel and pushed down then away. In shocked retaliation, Brad pulled the trigger as a resounding blast echoed through the apartment complex hallway. And before the drug dealer could even take full witness of his assailant and react, the Thin Man threw a powerful hand chop to his throat, stunning Brad momentarily and choking the air out of him. The dealer began to stumble backwards as he loosened his grip on his weapon with eyes bugging out from the full brunt of the initial assault._

_Then with swift demonic speed, the Thin Man pulled the shotgun from Brad's hands to disarm him, spun around in a pirouette, and with a precise and powerful arc, swung the butt end of the shotgun across the dealer's head. If the blow to the skull was not sufficient enough to knock Brad out, his rebound onto the doorframe face first was certainly enough to finish the job; he soon after collapsed to the floor, rolling onto his side unconscious._

_The Thin Man straightened himself as he towered over his victim, cracking his neck side to side before tossing the shotgun and sending it skittering across the floor. His fists clenched and unclenched several times as he let out a guttural huff, sounding like a rampaging bull after finishing off its charge. Then he looked back towards Nathaniel, who had fallen on his knees with a look of complete bewilderment, his mouth agape, his hand curling open to drop the gun. And the Thin Man saw that the wall a few inches next to Nathaniel had been riddled with shotgun bearings, leaving a fist sized crater at its epicenter. Had Brad fired sooner in their brief struggle, the blast would have most certainly bored a lethal wound at the upper quadrant of Nathaniel's chest. _

_Poor Nathaniel - such a pathetic, foolish and yet loyal disciple. The Thin Man surmised that he did his part rather well, the most dangerous and foolhardy part of it; going headfirst into danger unquestioningly, just because he was told to do so. He was a most glorious pawn indeed. _

"_Arise my child," beckoned the Thin Man, drawing him forth with a rising hand gesture. "You are with me."_

_Nathaniel stood slowly from the floor, visibly shaken by the missed shotgun blast, but also noticeably disturbed. Though it was not because of the danger he just experienced, rather only part of it. In actuality, most of his disturbance came from witnessing his Lord in action, because for the first time since becoming the Thin Man's follower, he briefly observed a corrosive countenance in that short struggle with Brad. He saw something fierce, something momentarily bestial and unbecoming of a God. The Thin Man could see a semblance of wavering doubt in his little disciple, just a miniscule glimmer, nothing dangerous yet. But if it were left unfettered, it could grow into something troublesome; and the Thin Man still needed Nathaniel, he still served a purpose. _

_And the Thin Man wondered if Nathaniel could withstand it all to the very end: the master plan, the violent punishments, the abyssal insanity? Could he look into the bowels of his Lord's void, knowing that it would stare right back at him, daring to consume his malleable and fragile soul? The Thin Man would soon test Nathaniel's faith, to understand just how loyal he really was after Nathaniel sees the true nature of his bestial God; when the Thin Man consumes the evils of Brad Silver, because his Savior was so terribly and inexorably starved for the sins of all criminals. Because the Thin Man had a hunger that could never be satisfied._

"_Come Nathaniel, let us deliver this wicked person," said the Thin Man standing over the unconscious drug dealer. "It is time to take Brad Silver to our execution scaffold."_

* * *

**Cramble Corner: Hi. So, first off, sorry for the delay of this chapter. Unlike Carter (in my story) I actually didn't procrastinate on this. Rather in my OCD way I literally worked on this chapter day by day for the past three weeks editing and revising over and over to ad nasuem. I mean, holy shit, this was probably the most revised written piece I've ever done in my life: I'd either find some weird flaw, or not enough detail, or stuff didn't make sense, until I had several new drafts of just this one chapter! By the third week, I knew if I kept going back and looking the chapter repeatedly it would never be sent. So as a writer, what I learned is that sometimes you have to let your work go. I guess in a way, it's like I was a parent raising this love child that grew up and needed to go and see the world, spread its wings and fly. So I'm doing just that, letting this thing fly, because seriously I want to get to the other chapters already which have been dancing around in my head just waiting to be written.**

**Second, I know I said I'd post the Pascal Langdale podcast interview in my previous chapter at the end of this chapter. But it seems the interview hasn't been done yet by the fellas at Playstation Chat. When they finally do release it I will definitely let you guys know and put a link to it in my Cramble Corner. ^_^**

**Third, I just noticed I average about six variations of the word Fuck in my story per chapter ("...Give or take 10%" - quoth the Norman Jayden, FBI), so I've updated my disclaimer to reflect the presence of strong language.  
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**Fourth, thanks for the continued support and for reading my story! Hope you enjoyed it so far despite the delay, and as always, all comments and constructive critiques are always welcomed. :)**


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: Story will contain graphic, heavily violent scenes (**like this chapter LIKE THIS CHAPTER **_**LIKE THIS CHAPTER**_), strong language, and adult themes so reader discretion is advised. All characters are property of Quantic Dream and in no way does the author claim any rights to their entities forthwith. Blah blah blah please don't sue.

Chapter V

Norman had a very active imagination as a child. Something as simple as a cardboard box could be manufactured with his mind as cave mouth with deep and twisting tunnels descending into the earth, or as an exploration submarine to crawl across the oceanic floor. But one particular imaginative moment that remained poignant in his mind was when he was five years old, primarily because his mother was involved in his playtime antics, and what she did to him afterwards.

It was July 20, 1983 - that day began rather mundane for young Norman. Like the days that came before, he had nothing much better to do other than sit on the living room sofa, kicking his legs in the air, and thumbing through the _Introduction to Behavioral Evidence Analysis_ psychology book his father had given him on his 5th birthday. Meanwhile, his mother was sitting next to him, watching a television news broadcast which discussed how today was the 14th anniversary of the Apollo 11 moon landing. While she was there in presence, her mind was most certainly elsewhere and distant, which was fine with Norman. He didn't want to deal with his mom, whichever one of them that would eventually surface and wrestle for control.

At the moment, Norman was more concerned about reading his book, or at least he tried to. Whenever he began to look through this scientific tome curiously to decipher its cryptic text, his mind unfortunately began to wander elsewhere. He couldn't help it, the words were rather dense for a five year old to truly comprehend. For example:

**THE METHOODOLOGY OF A CRIMINAL PROFILER**

_The criminal profiler deals with the facts and evidence, never the assumptions or any emotional sophistry. The profiler's methodology will always be objective, with the basis of its tenets founded upon the principles of the scientific method. It is imperative to understand what the profiling doctrines are to consistently remain on a professional path, juxtaposed to being a profiling ingénue. The method of profiling will be associated with—(Dinosaurs, rocketships! His mind began to wander…) – to the nature of behavioral examinations involved with – (sea monsters, zombies, dragons, roar!) – using a heuristic method – (explosions, lots of EXPLOSIONS! I'm flying, yay!) – crucial to professionalization._

Of course the analytical part of his young, developing mind wanted to learn: partly because Norman figured that his dad must think this book important to his growth somehow, but mostly because the book served as a symbol of his only emotional bond to his father, no matter how tenuous it really was. But the other, more innocent side of him, simply wanted what all children his age endeavored for: playtime, fueled by the never-ending wellspring of his imaginative young mind.

Two hands reached forward and slapped the book shut on his lap. Norman jumped, was startled, and noticed his mom had been the one to close his book. He was suddenly on edge, an instinctive and reactive response as his small body instantly entered into flight-mode. Norman held his breath, his heart suddenly pounding through his chest and clenching up his throat. Now he wished he was a little more concerned and alert about which person his mother would become that afternoon, because he knew what she was capable of if she turned out wrong.

His mother stared him down with a vapid stone face, not even a twitch. Her face was just a blank template waiting to be shaped by her disarrayed mind as she tossed the book aside, loudly slamming to the floor. Norman began to think: didn't his book mention something about facial recognition? Something about how microexpressions could reveal a person's true intentions? Surely there was evidence of those nuances right now on his mother's face?

His young elementary mind tried to grasp the situation, to decipher the context behind his mother's sudden action, but without the foreknowledge of his future self, the answer to this moment was far too ephemeral. The seconds lingered to what felt like minutes, as each moment was forced to a grinding halt, waiting and anticipating. His hands felt clammy, he had a feeling of dryness in his mouth. The air felt charged and unsettling.

She finally answered his mental postulations with a smile - a wide Cheshire grin, somewhat jovial but still held with it a hint of clandestine instability.

"Let's play, Normie!" she chimed exuberantly.

He let out an exhale of relief. When his mother called him 'Normie' that meant Playful Mom was in control. She was one of the few instances where Norman didn't feel any danger, didn't feel that empty chasm in their parent-child relationship. Playful Mom was one of the rare moments where he could briefly understand what it meant to have maternal love in one's life, no matter how fleeting the moment may be. But he had to make sure though that she was who she really was, that perhaps it wasn't just Deceptive Mom coming into play, or worse…

"What should we play-" he said, paused momentarily, then continued, "…Mom?"

She turned her gaze to the television which was still airing the news broadcast on the 14th anniversary of the Apollo moon landing. There was a clip of Neil Alden Armstrong, walking across the lunar surface, saying his famous phrase: "One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind."

His Mom clasped her hands together with excitement and cried, "Oh my God, let's play pretend! Why don't we go to the moon?"

Norman hesitated, still uncertain if this was the right Mom he wanted at the moment. So he thought to suggest something as a simple test, just to push against the grain a bit on his mother's delicate mind; it was ever so slight, like folding the crease on an envelope flap a tiny bit.

"The moon is boring, we should go to Mars." His suggestion, while cautious, had an edge of excitement and hope.

His mother seemed taken aback slightly by the idea as her face became dead pan flat, disseminating what her son had just suggested. No matter how many times Norman had seen that expression, he still felt unnerved, and thought he may have said something terribly wrong. He wondered what his mother's mind looked like as she processed her thoughts between the mothers. He supposed it was some kind of composite made of gears and brains – combining, recombining and crushing all the metal and grey matter until it made this twisted, bloody clockwork meat doll that could fall apart at any moment.

"Okay, Normie!" chirped his Mom playfully, ruffling his hair. "I'll get the cardboard box."

Perhaps one of the several mothers had all unanimously come upon some sort of agreement, or perhaps that only one mother really made the decision at a time, or perhaps it was neither one of those things, and it was just a firing of unstable random axons and dendrites in that equally unstable random mind of hers. Regardless of how she came to the conclusion, Norman was content that he was right in his initial assessment: that it was indeed the Playful Mom he was dealing with. His budding, young analytical profiler mind was put at ease.

"Rocket ship. The box is our Rocket Ship," corrected Norman excitedly with anticipation.

His mother stood up with a straight back, clicked her heels together and gave Norman a salute. "Roger that, Space Captain Normie! I'll prepare our Rocket Ship!"

As she left down the hallway to get the cardboard box, Norman observed how she was more like a child in this state than she was an actual, nurturing mother. In a way, it was like playing with a friend, or the closest thing to ever having one at his younger years. But in later years, even though he will look back at this satellite moment (at least, the good part) as something to be secretly treasured, he will mostly understand it as somewhat pathetic; it only served to emphasize just how truly alone he really was.

But for now, young Norman simply closed his eyes, and his understimulated imagination had instantly become overstimulated, the world around him exploding. He could see it now: the room filing with orange sand as it encroached around his feet, the shapes of the sofas and tables metamorphosing into sheer crags and jagged rocks, and the walls melting away until it became the backdrop of a breathtaking horizon with the blazing sun high across the clay colored sky, accompanied with the small crescent, cerulean shape of the Earth and its silver moon. In his later years, this scene would serve as one of his few designed templates during his sessions with ARI, since it stimulated his mind not because of his colorful imagination and his savant level intellect, but because of the emotional memory that came attached with it.

In the sandy landscape of Mars, he could see the oval metal spaceship with rows of circular glass windows across its surface, and the golden lettering of "Apollo XVL" sparkling intensely on its starboard. The jet engine at the vessel's stern looked battered from a recent explosion, with a plume of black smoke rising towards the sky.

Norman began to run towards the ship, traversing over a sifting dune as he left ankle deep impressions on the Martian sand. The side hatch of the space vehicle opened as his mother emerged, wearing a violet nylon spandex suit that had an angular white collar with geometrically obtuse cuffs. If anything, she could easily pass for a cartoon character – all glitzy and ostentatious.

And Norman was no different, with his cyan jump suit, yellow gloves and boots surrounded by superfluous ankle ringlets, how could he be anything but an absurd, overly dramatized space hero? Even the emblazoned letter "N" across his chest, in the shape of jagged lightning bolts, didn't help any to abate his already flamboyant, juvenile look. And even the ray gun attached to his hip holster, all bright yellow with an extended spherical brass knob at its barrel, was more like a plaything than anything lethal. But this was how he all preferred it anyway; it was his imagination after all.

"Cadet!" called Norman as he approached his mother, "What's our status?"

"Space Captain Normie, sir!" said his mom as she gave a firm salute, "The Martian asteroid field damaged our propulsion systems, and I am unable to communicate a distress signal to HQ."

Norman rubbed his chin in contemplation. "I see, atmospheric interference?"

"That's the thing Captain Normie, it's not because of Mars' atmosphere," his mother said ominiously, "It's like something is purposefully jamming our signal."

"Jammed?" said Norman, "Then that can only mean-"

He was suddenly interrupted as a beam of purple light lanced through the air with a piercing screech and hit the spot next to Norman's feet, blowing away and charring the sand. He flinched momentarily, then quickly swung around, pulled the ray gun from his hip and fired. With a comical pew-pew-pew sound, vicious purple rings shot out from his weapon, towards his target and hit!

The alien assassin, who was hiding behind a nearby boulder, lurched back from the strike. His overly huge, green head and red eyes rolled back, as his scaly body jostled with crackling energy, screaming, "Ack! Ack! Ack!"

Then the alien exploded with a dramatic, fiery finish.

"Martians!" yelled Norman, as more green heads popped out from the landscape, "They're everywhere!"

The air was suddenly filled with multicolored lights and shrieks of Martian laser beams as sand exploded around their feet. His mother, now wielding a pair of pink ray guns in the shape of oversized lipstick tubes, fired two simultaneous shots at two Martian attackers. They seized violently for a moment and cried out, before exploding. Norman was able to take down three more before his mother was seized with a wave of theatrical panic.

"Captain Normie!" she shouted with a histrionic tone of desperation and fear.

Norman grabbed her by the arm and began pulling her along. "Into the ship, now!"

More shrieking lasers fired dangerously close to the two, as protective imagination plot armor literally missed them by mere centimeters. Norman and his mother countered the enemy assault by shooting their ray guns, felling five more Martians in the process before entering their ship. His mother pressed a panel nearby as the hatch started to close, but a Martian beam shot through the doorway. The light bounced against the metallic hull of the spaceship and hit the panel, exploding in a shower of overly dramatized sparks and circuitry. Both Norman and his mother were thrown off their feet from the resulting explosion and hit the floor.

"Samoflange!" cursed Norman with gritted teeth as he scrambled for refuge around the corner of the open hatchway.

His mother quickly crawled across the floor and towards the opposite side of the hatch, with both of them now crouched on either ends of the opening. She crossed her dual lipstick-shaped pistols close to her chest, totally exasperated, while Norman held his ray gun up, ready for his next attack.

His mother shot a confused look towards Norman, breathing heavily. "Samo-what?"

"Nevermind!" yelled Norman. "Just keep firing!"

They shot their guns simultaneously from their covering, launching out a slew of parabolic rays that eliminated a dozen Martian attackers, all of them crying out in wails of "Ack!" before exploding. They immediately took cover afterwards as a return volley of lasers from the enemy blasted towards them, some bouncing off the metallic surface of the outer hull, and some ricocheting dangerously inside the ship. They covered their faces from the sparks and micro explosions that bounced all around them in a series of chaotic fireworks. Norman and his mother both realized they were trapped in a precarious situation - no matter how many times the Martians were terminated, two more would immediately take their place, despite both him and his mother having superhuman ray gun precision attacks that could only come from clichéd protagonists.

"What do we do, Captain Normie?" cried his mother, covering herself momentarily from another series of laser lights and explosions.

_Ring. Ring._

In all honesty, Norman hadn't thought that far ahead in his imagination. It was an oversight he hadn't took into consideration due to his overzealousness, and it seemed that he had trapped them into an imaginative problem with no possible way out.

"Normie, please!" his mother pleaded, breaking her space character with a rising panic in her voice.

_Ring. Ring._

More importantly, Norman realized he had to protect his mother, even if it was all pretend. Her mind was so fragile, and he had drawn her into this alien world too vividly. The longer the game progressed, the more Norman realized how engrossed she was becoming to the point of believing this to be reality. He hadn't thought of the repercussions of her mind getting lost in this Martian imagination world of his. What if he was creating another Mother? Space Cadet Mom? But with the hysteria and panic she was now experiencing?

In the cascade of glowing beams and explosions, Norman could see tears rolling down his mother's face, and the look of absolute terror in her wild eyes. Her mind was reaching a crescendo, a dangerous precipice, as she slid on the floor and hugged her knees towards her chest. The Martians had grown into a massive army now, marching towards their ship in a rapid pace, letting out a ferocious tribal, alien yell.

_Ring. Ring._

If only that phone would stop ringing, he could focus on getting them safely out of this imaginative problem and keep his mom from breaking, who was looking absolutely catatonic and etherized.

_Ring. Ring._

It was then that Norman realized the ringing was not a byproduct of his imagination, but coming directly from the real world – a telephone. His mother suddenly stood straight up with an expressionless face, as if pulled by puppeteer's strings, and walked out the ship's doorway despite the danger it posed.

"Mom!" cried Norman, reaching out. "Wait!"

But when she let her arms drop, she released the grip of her pink pistols. Instead of falling on soft sand, Norman blinked and found the two objects clattering onto a hardwood floor, suddenly turning into lipstick tubes that rolled in wobbly circles. He watched his mother hastening her gait, approaching the phone that stood between her and the army of Martians who slowly dissolved away like sand being blown in the wind, and merged to become a line of table chairs across a living room wall. Piece by piece, household items continued to devour the imaginative landscape and horizon of Mars, with rocks turning into sofas and cushions, the sun morphing back to a lampshade, and on and on until Norman was left standing next to a large and raggedy cardboard box that was once his magnificent space vessel; he was finally grounded back into reality.

His mother on the other hand, had urgency in her steps, and Norman knew why. That phone rang very rarely in their lives, because nobody except one person called it - the one person whom he wished desperately to be present always: his father.

Norman's mother practically leaped at the phone in her final steps, with a bestial and manic expression that bordered frightening and psychotic. For a brief, few seconds, as she wrenched the phone from its handle and brought it to her ear, her breathing was erratic and exasperated to a mutant level, inhuman and insane. Norman could hardly believe this was once his mother, or rather a playful mother at best. But once those few, shocking moments passed, she quickly wiped her eyes and her expression instantly morphed to a gentle and soft countenance. She smiled so wide it was almost like invisible wires hooked the side of her lips forcefully.

Then she spoke, ever so softly, like a wilting violet, "Hello, sweetheart?"

Norman could feel the pregnant pause lingering in the air, weighted and full of pressure, almost suffocating with the anticipation.

"Sweetie?" his mother spoke again through the phone with a rising urgency. "Are you there?"

His mother's face twitched: a sign, a microexpression. But was it the one he hoped for? Was his father making a connection? There was another pause, longer than the last, longer still.

"Hello? Answer me…?"

More silence, seconds waned, further and further, until it was too far apart. Then he knew, she knew, they both knew. And yet he didn't understand. She didn't understand. So much was spoken in that moment, without any words being said. Norman's mother put the phone back on its cradle with a click.

No answer. A missed call. Abandoned.

His father would not call again until the day of Norman's sixth birthday. But that wasn't enough; it was too long, too vast, too uncertain, too foreign, a Martian desert stretching into infinity. So much missing, and wanting, and emptiness, an alien feeling, invading, not belonging.

Norman's mother turned on her heels, her pace deliberate, marching like a Martian invading force. Her face contorted, wide smile, too wide, tears rolling down her face. Noises coming out of her, almost laughing meshed with sobbing. She continued her march, kicking away the lipstick tubes on the floor, then stopped in front of the cardboard box. The vessel which was once Norman's imagination spaceship was now his protective womb as he huddled inside its darkness, so fragile and pathetic. His mother hurled the box over with one swift motion as it thumped across the floor. Then she pulled Norman by the wrist, digging a thumbnail at the bend of his elbow, and lifted him into the air.

But instead of seeing the monster that was his mother, he was instead met with the face of a man, one that he had not expected to see, with his blue eyes and wide brimmed hat and neatly trimmed goatee. It was the man in the azure colored zoot suit, the one he saw earlier laying on him at his hospital bed, before the world turned dark. Norman was naturally confused, but more overwhelmed with a feeling of terror, because he knew, at the very pit of his being, that this man was a greater beast than his mother ever was, this devilish man in the suit that looked like Carter Blake.

"Mens sana in corpore sano," the man in blue said ironically, smiling, and flicking Norman on his child-sized forehead.

Norman struggled, but the man's grip was too tight a vice, trapping and ensnaring. His tiny child body flailed helplessly as the man in blue simply regarded little Norman as a toy. Norman felt frightened, so much fear.

"Time to feed," said the man in the zoot suit.

His jaw opened, then unhinged grotesquely, revealing inhuman rows of jagged needle-sized teeth. A long, blue serpentine tongue from the monstrous maw lashed out and licked the length of Norman's arm, leaving a film of gross saliva in it wake. Then he bit down on Norman's arm as the sharp, intense feeling of lengthened blades pierced his flesh, blood splashing out.

He yelled in horror, swinging wildly at his bestial attacker with his free hand.

Only to suddenly tumble in a perilous, darkened abyss, falling.

Then he hit the ground, cold and smelling of overwhelming antiseptics. For a few passing moments Norman felt disoriented, blinked a few times, unsure of his surroundings, everything was far too white and far too bright. He lay flat on his stomach for a few more seconds before he let out a groan, peeling himself off what he could now understand as linoleum flooring, and put a hand to his head for a moment as his senses came to focus. As the world slowly became copacetic, he could see a medical dolly, the long pole holding his IV bag, and the insertion tube which snaked all the way to his arm. As Norman put a hand on the bed to sit on its edge, he realized he was back at the hospital, no longer as a child but as a full grown adult, and that he foolishly fell off his bed in a reaction to what was probably a dream.

Of course it had to be a dream. Why would he dream of that memory so vividly with his mother: the Martian imagination incident as a child, the missed phone call, and then what she did to him afterwards. But what _did_ she do to him after that? He felt it was somewhat important. No, not important, something very visceral and sensitive, painfully important, those moments in life that make or break a person. So what did she do to him, was it make or break?

Norman wasn't sure, his dream was invaded soon after by…something or someone. Blue, man dressed in blue, eyes of blue. His mind was starting to get hazy the more he tried to grasp at the events of his dream, like trying to clutch a fistful of sand: the harder you closed your hand, the more granules would pour out from between your fingers until you were left with empty palms.

But before Norman could make further inquiries to his incredibly lucid dream, he immediately met the gaze of a man with eyes of green entering his hospital room door. It was the same man he'd known to clash against him to no end, with his scruffy goatee and exhausted but hardened countenance, that same man that had wanted to spit down his throat earlier: Carter Blake.

And at that moment, Norman forgot everything he had dreamt or thought about as the air was energized with this odd feeling of uncommunicated excitement and exuberance shared between them, behind all their walls and masks. Oh, how much disdain they shared, such enmity and discord! Such secret wishes…

Carter hadn't expected to see Norman off the bed, let alone ambulating in his condition, so he was particularly surprised in the most inexpressive manner possible, almost statuesque, as he let out a grunt. Norman, on the other hand, didn't expect nor want to see his least favorite Lieutenant in the world any time soon, or ever again. But here they were, standing in Norman's hospital room in a brief moment of silence and posturing as they eyed one another. Norman blinked once, then a second time, before he decided to make an overzealous gesticulation.

"Blake!" yelled Norman. "You're an imbalanced, psychopathic asshole!"

Carter, having heard this retort from him before, was well prepared. In a saccharine manner, the Lieutenant bowed from the waist and mockingly replied with a shit eating grin, "Well then, let me be king."

The Agent quickly retorted, "You wanted to spit down my throat!"

"And you-" The Lieutenant jerked an accusatory finger at Norman's direction. "-overdosed on Tripto."

Both statements were accurate, but it didn't make either person's argument valid towards a positive sense. It seemed that both had their own pound of flesh to throw at to the other. And they both knew, if they went down that path of ad hominem attacks, they'd only be slinging more mud at each other into oblivion. But, for the sake of self respect and dignity, as people of earned positions, as a top FBI profiler and as a Lieutenant of the homicide task force, neither would want to stand down on their brief skirmish.

And yet Norman had that nagging feeling in his mind, an irritating but palpable truth: the Lieutenant did just save his life. _Or rather_, Norman thought in a very circuitous conclusion, _he just assisted me, simply through convenient circumstances and coincidence, to get on that path of recovery so I could save myself. _At least, this is what Norman wanted to think so that he could still acknowledge Blake as somewhat of an antagonist, make him easier to deal with, identify him as less complex and predictable. Even though, deep down, he could see that, perhaps, Carter Blake wasn't such a monster - and _that_ ultimate, but true conclusion, both confused him and somehow comforted him in the most bizarre equivocal way.

So Norman did the one thing he didn't think he would ever say, the only thing that seemed appropriate in that circumstance, with the air so charged with their dynamic emotions and intentions, that it seemed almost natural to speak it, like he had wanted to convey it all along.

He looked at Blake with his own green eyes, across that room with that long stretch of silence standing between them, and said, "Thanks for helping me out."

It was a soft, almost whispered breath. Norman had to sit down on the bed, it made his knees buckle in. This was odd, so very odd, but natural, and right. It was a new sensation he hadn't felt in a long time, so foreign and alien, but hardly invasive and hostile. It felt like he was being tethered, grounded, connected, so very human. But he didn't lose his eye contact.

And neither did Blake lose his contact, as he felt another crack ebbing into the Atlas Statue of his countenance, the world on his shoulders suddenly overbearing. His eyes went wide, his jaw became slack for a moment, then he involuntarily gulped in dry air as he began to process. He hadn't expected that dialogue, for his most despised rival to say such a sentimental statement. With the way the Lieutenant looked now, in the midst of a guffaw, it was almost like witnessing a messy live birth, where even if the event of life's creation was a miraculous thing, it also gave the feeling of horrific shock that accompanied it. Was this what it was? A _birth _of something stunningly beautiful?

He looked away. He never looked away in _any_ confrontation before, because Carter Blake was an indomitable force! A mighty giant, a king! (Of psychopaths no less). And yet, how easily malleable, how the mighty can crumble, when even delicate words like invisible bullets can pierce his walls, and straight into his heart. God, no wonder he hated Norman so much, he always knew how to get through to his vulnerabilities.

"Yeah, you're welcome…" said Carter, the words feeling so unfamiliar, like tin scraping the roof of his mouth. How very uncharacteristic of him to be so kind, how unbecoming! How very true to his human essence.

Then the Lieutenant opted to follow through the conversation, much like any medical professional would when dealing with afterbirth: he took the sentiment, shrugged inconsequentially, and tossed it aside.

"…you fucking asshole," cursed Carter, his face feeling slightly flushed as he stared the Agent down. It was his belligerent way of centering himself back to his Lieutenant persona.

Norman sighed, shrugged as well, then laid part way on the bed while leaning his head against the wall; somehow he expected that type of typical, bull-headed response from Carter Blake. And anyway, he didn't want to dwell too long on that weird anomaly they just experienced, similar to the fist-to-heart event in the motel room before, and one of many that they will unknowingly be experiencing the further they continue to work together. But those parts of their journey have not yet come to pass. For now, they both seemed resigned in their game of pretends and make-believes, that it was Agent versus Lieutenant, at odds like butting rams.

"So," Norman began, with an agitated tone, "what exactly are you doing here, Blake?"

The Lieutenant wasn't too fond of having to repeat the news of what Captain Leighton Perry had told him earlier that day at the station, but he didn't have much choice on the matter. So Carter quickly summarized the key points of what was discussed, adding his own verbal spin to it: _the homicide department and the fuckin' FBI weren't particularly impressed with our stellar performance and progress, or lack thereof, on the Origah-mee Killer case; so Perry and whoever your dip-shit boss is in the FBI decided we'd be partners again, except this time if we fuck up…_

The Lieutenant made sure he gave the Agent a sour look at that precise moment, jerked a thumb towards his own throat and made a slicing motion, accompanied with a tacky histrionic sound effect, from one end to the other.

"Kapeesh?" asked Carter condescendingly.

Norman did what he had done earlier, down in that hospital hallway before the Lieutenant almost spat down his throat – he blinked once, then a second time as a mark of silent resistance, and then he said, "Yeah, yeah of course."

To top it off, the Agent gave him his signature smirk.

God, how Carter hated Norman's coy nonverbal tactics of irritation, all but an archaic symbol of who he was and what he represented: a bureaucratic ass-hat, all psychologically intelligent and full academic swagger. But the Lieutenant wasn't finished with their little game of dominance, he still had his rote mastery in sarcasm, and one other thing…

"So now that we're on the same page," the Lieutenant began to say, "And you're finished with your _fairy_ nap, get dressed and do your _fuckin'_ job."

Norman looked at his hospital robed body, just a thin material lightly clinging to his naked flesh, then up at Carter as if his suggestion was the equivalent to proposing an illegal back alley abortion. He held up a wrist which was still connected to a catheter line that snaked its way to a hanging IV bag on a pole, and said, "Blake, I'm obviously in no position to go-"

Suddenly, Carter took several strides forward, advancing like a crashing deluge against the shore, as he slammed both of his palms behind the wall where Norman leaned his head. There was a jarring bang as the wall shuddered momentarily from the force of the Lieutenant's muscled approach. Then the Agent could feel the heat from Carter's hands in close proximity to his ears; the immediacy of this moment, it was like that motel room scene all over again, only this time Norman was conscious and fully aware of what was happening. And Carter had a stone cold face, something that held with it some clandestine intent, just inches away from Norman's own. If anybody walked in on them right at that moment, it would have practically looked like two grown men being homoerotic and embarrassingly intimate.

However, it was anything but that, as the Lieutenant's hand glided slowly across the wall and towards the connector tube dangling below the hanging IV bag swaying listlessly on its pole. Then he gripped the tube tightly and pulled with a resounding pop, splashing dripping fluid on the floor.

"Oh," chimed Carter sardonically, "I think you're good to go now."

* * *

_Brad Silver awoke ever so slowly, like coming out from a very comforting dream, gliding into conscious awareness. He expected to be back on his satin covered bed, wrapped in his robe made of fine silk, luxuries purchased through his drug laundering and peddling schemes. Sure, he messed up many lives because of it, but it's not like he'd ever dwell on it. Knowing that he could wake up to such amenities made him sleep very well at night. Then later he would see if his girls were awake to get ready for school, and fix them their breakfast. Coco Pebbles for his eldest Sarah, and Lucky Charms for his youngest Cindy, and it couldn't be anything but that. Then, while they were eating, he'd sneak down the hallway and steal a quick look at his loaded shotgun hidden behind towering piles of books and magazines next to the front door. Satisfied that it was loaded and ready, Brad would sneak back into the kitchen, and see how his girls were doing. _

_Unfortunately, the days of doting fatherhood, substantiated due to his drug dealing to further the corruption of Philadelphia, would no longer come to be. _

_He finally became aware of the fact that he was tied against a pole, forced to stand on a makeshift wooden platform over a row of empty pews, broken and scattered haphazardly; the setting was _ecclesiastical_, all mortar and stone, with boarded-up windows which once had stained glass, the room smelled of decayed frankincense. Brad tried to scream and vocalize his confusion, but his mouth was gagged tightly with a strap that ran the circumference of his head, so it only came out as guttural, inaudible yell. He was a frightened, pitiful beast, ensnared by the wicked machinations of a grand hunter._

_Brad heared movement off to the side and instinctively looked over, as he struggled to free himself from his bindings. He pulled his wrists apart with all his might, and squirmed continually at his ankle bindings. But he was trapped, all too well, and escape was impossible. All he accomplished was giving himself a series of rope burns. Then the man he saw earlier from his apartment appeared, sniveling and slightly crouched, with his rat-shaped eyes filled with fear, but of a different kind. Not of the death knell that shook through Brad's body, but rather, one of pity._

"_My Lord," said Nathaniel. "He is awake."_

_Then, as if an ethereal ghost, the Thin Man glided out of the shadows from the darkest part of the room, between the rows of scattered pews, his arms were outstretched in some psychotic embrace. He was imperceptible, dressed in black, cloaked in a flowing shadow, almost artificial and synthetic, and he wore a gas mask. The eye holes of his mask were blood red, with the shape of his head all wrong, being too tall, or too wide, so alien. _

_Something was not right with Brad, he felt so wrong. This feeling in his body, like a drug, etherizing, affecting his senses, the sensation was familiar but he didn't know what it could be, too much fear, the monster was approaching. The Thin Man was like a leather-bound demon, he could feel his intent. His breathing from the exhaust compartments on the sides of the mask made his breaths sound otherworldly, not human, a monster. _

_The Thin Man ascended the stairs of the platform, his presence dominating; Brad felt like he was eclipsed in his shadow. They locked gazes for a very long moment, Brad had shuddered breaths, frightened, while the Thin Man's heavy, bestial sounds seemed guttural and vicious. The red eye holes, it looked hideous, did they pulse, like heart beats? No, something chemical was definitely coursing through his body, no, his mind was so afraid, this was all too real, a living nightmare, this couldn't be happening! It felt like his essence was being scooped out from the inside, devoured, the feeling worming through his eyes and into his guts. He wanted this feeling to stop, oh God, he wanted it to stop!_

_Then the Thin Man threw his arms around Brad's head, unfastened the strap that had gagged his mouth, and let it fall off to the side. His mouth quivered fearfully, and for a shameful moment, he urinated. He realized too late that he was naked and exposed, so the piss simply ran down his leg, through the wooden floor cracks, dripping. He whimpered out of shame, but the fear was still immediate. Brad looked away now that his head was unbound, he didn't want to look into those eyes any more._

"_Brad Silver," bellowed the Thin Man, his words sounded like grated and hollow. "You are a corrupt worm that has plagued society with your evils, peddling your filthy drugs and infecting people with the sickness of sin. What do you have to say for yourself?"_

_The Thin Man drew a curved blade from his side, grappled Brad by his gray hair, and pulled his head up as he snaked the weapon dangerously across the flesh of his throat._

_Brad shivered, his body aching for mercy. "I-I'll give you anything! Drugs, I got a shit ton of cash! Just don't-"_

_The Thin Man thrusted his other hand to the dealer's chin and clenched his mouth like a grotesque fish, pressing the curved blade right on his protruding adam's apple. His voice rumbled through the gas mask as he looked off to the side._

"_Do you see how the sinner bargains, Nathaniel? When faced with his own ignominy? He pleads with sin to generate sin." _

_Nathaniel nodded, almost crumbling to his knees as the terror trembled within him. "Y-Yes, my Lord, I do see."_

_The Thin Man looked back at Brad, all hog tied, naked and wretched. "You're a criminal, you skirted under the law, you've pardoned your way out of punishment with drugs and blood money, and you've ultimately destroyed lives because of it. You __**will**__ be judged."_

_He tossed Brad's head as it flailed off to the side, then rolled down towards his chest. As the Thin Man turned on his heels to walk away while sheathing his blade, the dealer started making miserable sounds, they were pitiable wails, as he sobbed out tears and snot. His body knew, even if it hadn't reached his addled mind yet, his body knew that something inevitable awaited him. But the thoughts of his daughters flashed in his mind, he had to do something, for their sake, he had to survive._

"_Please!" Brad cried, "I have two daughters…"_

_The Thin Man turned on his heels again in a dramatic gesture, facing Brad._

"_So you say," said the Thin Man, and slammed his hands violently against the top of two rusted oil barrels._

_There were sudden muffled shrieks of children inside the metallic containers._

"_Your daughters are nothing by byproducts, a spawn of your sin," the Thin Man explained._

_The Thin Man twisted and popped out the tiny caps on each of the barrels. Then he slammed his fists again on the top of each container as a louder set of cries were emitted from them._

"_Call to them," instructed the Thin Man towards the drug dealer, his voice suddenly hypnotic and serpentine._

_Brad Silver's mind began to race: Oh God, please no, please not them! It could be any kid, anybody in those barrels, or maybe it's even a trick! But please let it not be my kids, please let it not be…_

"_Sarah? Cindy?" Brad called out._

"_Dad!"_

"_Daddy!"_

_The Thin Man slammed his fists again on the barrels. Their voices howled, they reverberated everywhere; it was like some twisted aria, and the Thin Man was the conductor, as he raised his hands into the air, drawing their cries into a glorious crescendo._

_Brad struggled in his bindings, his wrists and ankles boring through his flesh and drawing blood. "You sick fuck! Let them go! Let them go! They're innocent!"_

"_You-" began the Thin Man as he unsheathed and pointed his curved blade, "-say your daughters are innocent, but they are born from your sin, your life of drugs and filth. And so, they must be purified."_

_He turned to address his little disciple. "Nathaniel, how does one purify sin?"_

_His follower blinked, unsure of the proper response. But then he remembered that night in the alley, after Lieutenant Carter Blake whipped him so shamefully, lacerating his back until it bled, until it mixed with the rain. It was the day he met his Lord, the rain at that moment suddenly felt soothing, like it washed away his essence, as the scars on his back became permanent, as each long jagged thread across his flesh reminded him of the cleansing power of..._

"_Water, my Lord," answered Nathaniel._

"_Connect the hoses Nathaniel, and fill these containers."_

"_No, NO!" cried Brad, tears were pouring down his face._

_Suddenly, the Thin Man was upon him, face to face with that awful mask, blocking his line of vision from the barrels. The movement was so instant, like he existed outside of time and space itself._

"_Yes," countered the Thin Man as he delivered a powerful, gloved backhand across Brad's face, causing his head to fall to the side._

_The Thin Man stepped aside as Brad lifted his head. He could now see that the hoses were already connected, when clearly they weren't a moment ago. On top of that, water was already filling the barrels. Brad's senses betrayed him, his consciousness no longer attuned to reality. He was angry, he was a afraid, so much hate, so much helplessness. His head felt like it was splitting open, his nose started to flow with blood._

_One moment the girls cried out, screaming hysterically, trapped in their watery vessels. Then he blinked; then suddenly the barrels were overflowing. They voices were silent. His daughters were dead._

_Brad had an uncontrollable anger, he was livid, his mind wasn't himself, and neither was his body. He struggled through his bindings, it was beginning to slice right at the bone._

"_I'll kill you! I'll kill you! I'll kill you!" said Brad through gritted teeth, his eyes manic and wild, almost popping out._

_The Thin Man spoke towards his servant. "Nathaniel, it is time to bind him."_

_And just as he was commanded to, and without question, Nathaniel took the strap off the floor and tried to put the bind back on Brad. But he resisted, shifting his head from side to side like a crazed animal, no longer afraid but had a surprising tenacity, fueled by a primal anger, an instinctive force. He spat towards Nathaniel, who stood there agape and in shock as a trail of mucous covered blood slid down his cheek. It was completely unexpected._

"_My Lord, the sinner resists," complained Nathaniel, wiping the blood away with his sleeve._

_Then Brad felt a sharp, obtrusive pain in his gut, stunning him as air was expelled from his lungs. He looked down, gasping and shuddering, as the Thin Man's blade pierced his abdomen. It was then the world suddenly turned to focus, the pain replacing the turmoil that was once swirling through his muddled mind. And he saw, for a brief moment, Nathaniel lifting the binding towards his face. But rather than tying it around his mouth, it was instead strapped around his neck._

_Then the next movements seemed precise and incredibly calculating, almost ritualistic._

_The Thin Man stabbed him again in the abdomen, then sliced downward to his naval with a high grade of accuracy as a spurt of blood flushed out. Then the Thin Man took one step back, reached over to the side, and pulled a lever; the floor gave way from under Brad's feet. The drug dealer slid down the pole, the ropes that bound him were tied precisely so that they could easily slip through the metal. Then he realized, although rather too late, that the platform he had stood on was actually a high rising scaffold. And in that instant, after falling a few feet below, the binding around his neck went taut, snapping his neck. The sudden force from the descent ejected Brad Silver's innards, bursting through the opening of his belly, with his bowels hanging out._

* * *

**Cramble Corner: Hi. So um...hope I didn't lose too many readers? With my somewhat extended period of absence? :3**

**As usual, comments, critiques, criticisms, and/or cookies are always welcome. Also alliterations beginning with C.  
**


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